Love Starts Now
by myepicweekend
Summary: I've found a reason for me / to change who I used to be, / A reason to start over new / and the reason is you. / Jennel catches Demi's attention from the start. Demi spins Jennel's life on it's axis and makes her question everything. Now, through to the final 4 contestants in her age group, Jennel and Demi get to know each other a lot better. Dennel. * Rated M for later chapters.
1. Wolf Pack

Don't take this the wrong way, but the finalist mansion doesn't look how I pictured it.

When I was told I was going to be living in the finalists mansion, the word 'mansion' made me picture on of those luxurious estates from the works of Jane Austen. The kind with 3 stories and ivy climbing up on all sides and a lion head door knocker, with a long driveway, miles of acreage and a wrought iron gate at the entrance, in between stone pillars with intimidating gargoyles on top. Willie laughed at me when I told him this, but he also made a bet with me that everyone who drove in LA drove Porsche's and Ferrari's, and I've only seen 3.

So, I might have been wrong – and in the wrong decade – with my expectations, but the building before me is just as intimidating. The mansion is a long rectangle, painted white, three stories tall with wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor glass. The afternoon sunlight makes the whole building shine. It excites me and scares me at the same time.

If I wasn't so set on remembering how to walk straight and keep down breakfast that my nerves have been threatening to launch from my stomach all morning, I might have picked up a pebble and flicked it at one of the windows to see what would happen.

"Is that everything, ma'am?" The male voice breaks my train of thought, and I realize I had completely forgot about my taxi driver. And I also realized I was gawking at this place like I'd never seen a house before. Well to be fair, I really had never seen a house that looked like this.

I look down at my feet where my small supply of luggage lies.

Everything looks like it's there.

I nod my head, glancing up at the driver. He has the window rolled down so I can see him, his name tag says 'Brandon', but I'm too nervous to call him by name. It was already awkward enough travelling in 20 minutes of silence, I'm not going to pretend we're friends and on first name basis. "I think so, thanks." My voice wavers a little as I speak. I have all my stuff, I'm here in one piece and I paid and tipped him already without needing to be reminded. For my first taxi ride I think I did alright.

Brandon smiles a little and watches me as he starts to pull away from the curb. I feel a little nervous with him driving forward without looking ahead of him, "Have a nice day." He says, and with that his eyes return to the road and he speeds off.

I manage to half-heartedly wave as the vehicle it disappears around a wind in the road, doing a mental checklist to make sure I didn't forget anything. Sure enough I did. Yeah, I have my suitcase, backpack and satchel with me, but I left my brain in that taxi. Now that I'm alone with, it's all sinking in.

 _Oh my god. I actually have to go in now._

I look up at the mansion again and my stomach does a flip. This is my new home for the next couple of weeks. It didn't exactly scream "home!" to me, what I was getting sounded more like "Ikea show room!".

 _The only way I'll get comfortable with being here is if it feels like home, and calling it a mansion is going to freak you out. This isn't a mansion. This is home now._

A few cars are parked along the front of the mansion- fuck, I mean home -, but not a soul is in sight. Willie said he would meet me here at 2:30pm and if he arrived early he would wait outside or if he was running late he would text. If anyone knows how overwhelmed I'm feeling right now, it's Willie. We've been in contact since bootcamp, and is definitely the person I'm closest to here. Maybe he texted and I didn't hear it come in. I reach down and pick up my satchel, feeling for the familiar rectangular bump of my cell phone, making sure I hadn't dropped it in the back seat of the taxi. I find it and pull it out, but there are no new alerts.

I sigh, putting it away and hanging the satchel over my shoulder. I wait a few seconds, glancing up and down the street. Maybe I'm being punk'd or something and Ashton Kutcher is pissing himself with laughter as he watches me on a monitor in a van around the corner.

I start to consider it until I realize it's a stupid idea; only famous people get Punk'd. I'm just a girl on X factor, stuck just under halfway between unknown and famous.

I've probably only been standing here for 2 minutes, though it feels like 30, waiting for someone else to show up so I know I'm in the right place. I told myself I wouldn't do this, depend on others and follow their lead. _It's time to grow up and be your own person._ _What's stopping you?_ My feet. My brain. My fear fo the unknown. _Life starts now. Life starts now._ My mantra usually works in getting me in the right frame of mind, but right now it's not.

Maybe I was e-mailed the wrong address. Maybe I'm not in Demi Lovato's final 4 and in reality(far away) I'm asleep in my own bedroom thinking that I'm living in an elaborate dream. I shouldn't be so scared shitless nervous. Maybe this is a sign I shouldn't go in. Hey, maybe I'm not ready and should wait until next year to try again. (That is... _if_ I get four yeses next year and make it this far- hypothetically, I mean, _if_ this whole thing isn't a dream and I really did get _actual_ yeses from four _actual_ celebrity judges of the _actual_ tv show X factor and now I get one of them (the _actual_ Demi Lovato!) as my mentor).

Demi Lovato. An far too pleasant thrill rushes over me at the thought of her.

God, I can't believe she's real. I mean, yeah I knew she was real before, but I knew she was way out of my league in a too-perfect-on-another-level-the-only-way-I'd-meet-you-would-be-by-being-your-butler-which-just-so-you-know-I-wouldn't-mind-being-so-please-hire-me kind of way.

A few weeks ago, the closest I had come to Demi was seeing her and hearing her voice on my CD's and youtube videos. I wasn't a die hard fan- a "Lovatic", but I had(and still do) huge respect for her. I knew she was a powerful young woman and successful artist with a beautiful voice and a face to match. I thought that was the extent of how I would I know Demi. An audition and four little words changed that.

Simply put, in person Demi is so much better. In all ways.

Physically, she's just as gorgeous, but she's taller than I thought she'd be. I know we're around the same height, not that I googled it or anything, but every time I've seen her she's been in stilettos so high it's painful just to look at them. I don't know how she manages not to trip, but it must be worth it. _Oh, it's worth it._ A voice inside my head cuts in, _Jeez, the way those heels flatter her legs and ass I know it's definitely 200% freaking worth it._ I shake me head, trying to get rid of the thought, although true, I'm trying to motivate myself here, not admire Demi Lovato's body.

I never thought she would be someone who would alter my future. The best days of my life had happened because of Demi, because she really liked me. No, she _likes_ me. Present tense. Right now, she's out in LA somewhere, knowing I exist. She thinks I'm incredible and... hot and so many other things I'm starting to believe because of her.

I can't believe I actually went through with singing "I Kissed a Girl" in front of her.

The task was to take a popular song and make it acoustic. It's a fun and flirty song, and- no pun intended -I liked it. I remember the way she smiled when I told her my song choice. Knowingly almost. Oh god, I hope she didn't think I was trying to flirt with her. Flirting was the _last_ thing on my mind. I was so anxious and stressed out on performing right that I wasn't even thinking about flirting, but I guess it went over was alright. Well, I was singing about kissing girls, there's nothing that's not alright about that. I feel my cheeks grow hot as my train of thought transitions into wondering how it would have gone over if I had put out the effort to sing flirtatiously and sexily. I would have loved to see her face. Oh yeah, and Nick's since he was there too... but mostly Demi.

I'm smiling now, easing out of my intense train of thought, but then my eyes are drawn back to the mansion of glass before me and my smile fades. The building is mostly transparent and I can see there's definitely no one on this side of the house waiting for a new arrival. There's no movement on any of the floors.

Maybe this isn't the right place. No shit, I know I'm not in the right place. I'm in _Los Angeles._ _Hollywood Hills, to be exact_ _._ Far, far from my Rochester town. But I don't want to return just yet, my family and friend back home have faith in me. I can't let them down by backing out because I'm scared of the unknown. And more importantly, I can't let Demi down. If she believes in me, I should too.

I have to do this for her, that's the only way I'll have the strength to do it for me.

A few deep breaths later, I sling my backpack of my shoulder on top of my satchel and pick up my suitcase. I'm not sure where the front door is, but I'm guessing it's at the front of this place. I walk up a small flight of concrete steps that look promising. They lead up between two small palm trees, meters away from a panel of glass that looks like all the other windows, except this one has a metal handle and an intercom mounted on a cement pillar that comes up to my waist. But most importantly, the X factor logo is engraves on the glass door. Finally, a sign that I'm in the right place.

I put my suitcase down and inspect the intercom; my key into the place.

On the inercom there are 5 round, white buttons in a row with a metallic rectangular one that looks like a keyboard spacebar below them. The white buttons are labeled from 1 to 5, the "spacebar" is unlabelled.

My stomach sinks. Am I supposed to know the code to get into this place? How the hell should I know? I frown, randomly picking button number 1 and pressing down. Static sounds hiss out of the intercom.

I'm not sure if that means I should say something, so I lean down a little and speak close to the intercom, "Hello?" I feel like an idiot. I'm talking to an inanimate object.

I stand up straight in case anyone's watching me, even though I know no one's around. I shift my weight from foot to foot, waiting for... what am I waiting for? I don't know, something. Another life form would be nice.

About ten seconds go by before I press the spacebar button. It looked the most important after all, and if it ends up making something blow up or sets off an alarm it shouldn't be there to tempt me.

There are no explosions or alarms, but intercom does make a low beeping sound that lasts for a few seconds.

 _Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep._

And then a click, and the door shifts inwards a little.

I pick up my suitcase and, with my free hand, instinctively reach for the door handle and push. There's no resistance. I push more and take a few steps forward and then all of a sudden I'm standing in the foyer of the X factor house.

I made it in. I'm officially here. I let what just happened sink in and I barely reign in a squeal, "Oh my god!" I whisper-shout, because it's so quiet in here it seems wrong to ruin it, "Oh my god!"

Smiling broadly, I set my bags down to the right of the door and look around the room for the first time. It's perfectly square with solid walls on three sides, the only glass wall is the one behind me where I entered from. To my left there are three sleek white couches against the wall with a large squiggly painting mounted on the wall above them, and on on the far wall that I'm facing is a silver door that looks like an elevator. (Oh my god, I knew this place was big- but _elevator_ big?! Holy crap!) The only thing to my right are a flight of stairs that go around the corner, leading somewhere I can't see.

I have no idea where to go, and I don't want to anywhere and risk someone else coming in and finding me snooping around, so I take a seat on one of the couches. Plus, whether it's the afternoon sun or my nerves, I'm dizzy really need to sit down.

I hadn't realized how tense I was, now that I'm off my feet I feel way more relaxed already.

I'm considering taking a nap when I start hear periodic thumping sounds, growing louder and louder. My mind takes a moment to match the sound to something: footsteps. Coming down the stairs.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck. Someone else is here after all.

Before I can think of somewhere to hide- because that's logical, right? Hiding in a glass house. No way I'd be seen. - I can see a bare foot appear from around the corner of the staircase, the toenails painted black, then a blue skinny jean-clad leg comes into view. I avert my eyes quickly, before the rest of her body is visible. I know who it is. The black nail polish was an immediate tip off. Demi.

"Hi!" I can hear the smile in her voice before I look up and see it, white and dazzling. If not for the signature smile, I almost don't recognize Demi, her hair is still blonde like the last time I saw her, except now she has a fringe that covers her entire forehead. It's cute, I guess, she can pull anything off, but it's a shame it covers her face so much.

"Hey," I reply in a small, unsure voice that surprises me.

I stand up when she walks closer to me with open arms and I mimic the gesture until she's close enough for us to hug. Demi wraps her arms tightly around my waist. Mine are around her neck.

I've involuntarily risen up so I'm standing on my toes, a habit from having to do it when she's in her stilettos. This is the first time I'm seen her without them. I try to inconspicuously change my stance, but she has noticed already. "Aww, you're so cute." she says as she pulls away, her eyes giving me a once over from head to toe.

I immediately second guess my outfit choice. I'm wearing a figure hugging white dress with black stripes that stops mid thigh, with my leather jacket over top of it; giving me a small amount of conservation. In comparison, Demi is almost completely covered up, wearing blue skinny jeans with a long sleeved red and blue checkered flannel. The one thing that is bare; is her face. She doesn't have an smudge of make up on. Of course, it's really cute, but that's not the point.

Demi's gaze travels shifts to my hands, which I have clasped together in front of myself. For a moment I think she's staring at something else. "Oh, hey, we match." She says, as if it's the greatest thing in the world. She holds out her hand, palm facing down, and, just like mine, her nails are painted black.

I laugh. It comes out a little shaky, but it's genuine.

"It's a sign." I say.

We're destined.

I don't say that. (I don't even know why I thought it.)

"Did you do yours yourself?" She asks.

"Yeah, why?"

"It's really good. I can never get mine to match like that. That's why I get manicures. I don't know how they learn to do it so good. There must have been a school where you're taught to paint nails that I missed out on."

"I've never had a manicure before." I admit, feeling completely out of the loop.

Surprise flickers across Demi's face, but it's replaced with mischief a split second later. "Then we're getting those babies manicured tomorrow." She pauses, lightly patting the back of my left hand. I'm not sure if that's a queue for her wanting to hold it or inspect it, but I keep it clasped tightly with my other one, waiting for her to keep speaking. "Every girl deserves at least a hundred manicures in their life."

I feel an involuntary smile on my face, but when I nod it's stiff. I'm finding it hard to relax, standing in front of trying to have a conversation. This is the first time I've seen her without a camera or spotlight on her. The first time I've seen her without make up, heels and a glitzy wardrobe. It's refreshing, she's not in mentor/judge mode, she's here for me as herself. As a friend. Wow, it's hard to think of her as a friend. I can only think of her as a mentor; or a supreme being that I should listen to and take orders from. I'm not sure what's more intimidating: "mentor Demi", or "friend Demi". I know she's only a few months older than I am, but everything I have said to her during the past few minutes sounds stupid and inadequate to my ears. I just want to impress her.

Demi doesn't seem to notice my internal conflict, still smiling brightly while she asks me questions, "So how's it going? Did you find your way here alright?"

"Yeah, great, no problem." I reply. Nevermind how I almost chickened out last minute.

"Cool. Well, it looks like you made it here okay..." She trails off, watching my face with an expression that's a mix of confusion and amusement. "we can relax you know... you don't have to stay standing."

I blush. _Yeah I know I just enjoy being uncomfortable._ Instead, I murmur the most wisdom filled sentence ever,"Oh."

I probably look too relived when I sit down on the couch where I had been before. I scoot over to the side and invite Demi to sit down next to me. She settles beside me, angled towards me a little so her knee knocks mine lightly. I'm not sure whether to move or just pretend I don't even notice.

I choose the latter.

There's a moment of silence, and instead of filling it with another question for me, Demi is occupied by unbuttoning one of the two front pockets of her flannel. With the flair of a magician revealing a white rabbit from his top hat, she pulls out a pair of black rimmed, non-prescription glasses. Demi flashes me a grin before sliding them on. Oh my god.

"So, how do you like LA so far?" Just like her prior questions, she sounds truly curious about my answer and not asking just for the sake of it. "Sorry you had to spend most of it looking at the inside of my apartment." She laughs, but sounds truly apologetic.

I can't help but roll my eyes. "Are you kidding? I loved your place. I don't know how you can leave it."

Demi's ever-present smile widens, probably pleased that she's gotten me to go beyond a one-syllable or two-syllable answer. "Well you're welcome over anytime, dear." She says it in a very proper voice and I think I even hear a twang of a British accent like she's pretending to be the Queen. Might as well be.

I'm trying to think of something witty to say back, but Demi looks like she has something more to say, her eyes narrowed slightly and her eyebrows knitting behind the veil of her blonde fringe. "You have my number right?"

I bob my head a little. Of course I do. Demi gave it to all the 4 young adults. I put it in my phone right away so I wouldn't forget. I play is cool though. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good, because I want everyone to feel comfortable with being here with me. You need anything, just call- literally."

"Yeah and I know where you live, so..."

"Oh shit."

Her words are followed by a loud giggle that's contagious, I'm joining in before I can stop myself.

It feels good to laugh with her.

Our laughter fades quickly and it's quiet for a moment, but it's comfortably quiet, both of us thinking.

I watch her as she pulls off her glasses and shines them on her shirt before popping them back on. I think like having Demi to myself. I like having her to talk to without being under the surveillance cameras. When it's just Demi; stripped down, not-in-production Demi - I feel like I _have_ to be honest with her, and already I know she'll be honest with me.

I wonder where the other contestants are. Demi and I are obviously alone, but it has to be almost 3pm by now. Everyone else should definitely be here. The silence lags on for a few seconds more. I surprise myself by breaking it, "Wow, it's so quiet..."

Demi nods in agreement, "It's usually not this quiet here. Hollywood's behaving for you."

"Where are the others?"

"I'm not sure about everybody, but I know a bunch of them were taking a shuttle from the hotel here, but they're still caught up in traffic downtown.. should be another 20 minutes or something."

I bite down on my lower lip, worrying it between my teeth. Alone with Demi for another 20 minutes. That's long enough to make an impression on her, what if this is a test? What if the questions she asked are trick questions and I answered wrong? I know I'm over analyzing the situation, but the other option is Demi really does just want to hang out with me, and that's too great to consider about.

Demi misinterprets the look on my face and puckers her lips into a perfect pout, looking so utterly heartbroken it's unfair,"The thought of hanging out with me's that terrible, huh?" She asks, sadness laced in her voice.

 _No!_ I shake my head quickly, scrambling to back track, eyes wide, _Oh my god she must think I'm horrible_ and I reach out and touch her leg because comforting her seems like the right thing to do. "No, no, I just had no idea and..." As I talk I pat her leg in a way I think is reassuring. I'm hoping it comes across that way and it doesn't look like my hand's spasming. "I just feel kind of ridiculous arriving so early I wasn't trying to... be _that_ girl."

I watch as Demi's eyebrows raise, " _That_ girl...?" She prompts.

"The goody goody teacher's pet showing up extra early." I clarify, definitely blushing as I say it or maybe I'm blushing because as I spoke I super awkwardly took my hand off her leg.

She chuckles breathily, and in a voice smooth as velvet, that I'm not sure is intended or not, she replies, "I think it depends on the teacher."

I'm going to deny the fact that I shivered a little.

"No, but seriously..." Demi takes a hair elastic off of her wrist as she speaks, voice back to normal, collecting her blonde hair and tying it into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, "... you can go out too if you want. Before I heard you come in, I was out back checking out the pool. Today's the first time I've seen this place and – oh my god – it's amazing."

I shrug my shoulders. I can go out later with Willie. "I'm okay."

Demi seems pleased with my answer, sitting up a little straighter and beaming at me, "We can have some time alone then." She nods, agreeing with her statement, before her eyes are on me again.

Without warning she reached out and touches my hair, "I love this by the way, so cool." She says, I glance down to see the yellow streak I have is between her forefinger and thumb and she's gently moving it between her fingers as she examines it.

Her compliment makes my face feel hot, but I manage to get a decent, "Thanks." out of my mouth.

Demi is still playing with my hair, and it should bother me but it doesn't at all."I didn't even notice it until a couple of days ago... how do you think this colour would look on me?" She asks amidst a giggle, leaning closer to me so her head is almost on my shoulder, holding my yellow hair to hers. I'm watching this all happen out of my peripheral vision, since if I turn my head, she would no long have my hair in her hold, and I don't want to ruin her fun. Yeah, that's why I'm not moving. Definitely.

She shifts a little and her head no longer hovers over my shoulder, it's officially resting _on_ my shoulder. For some reason I don't mind the close proximity at all (Probably because it's Demi Lovato and she can get away with a lot, being Demi Lovato). And besides, I'm pretty sure she's just goofing off to try to get me to loosen up some more. Well, it's working. Kind of. I'm completely calm and relaxed... other than the fact that my heart has decided to hammer against my chest without my permission or any reason to do so.

 _Calm the fuck down._

"I've tried almost every other colour..." She muses to me, or herself. I inhale and I can smell her hair. It smells like vanilla and something fruity. It's really nice. I wonder if she's wearing perfume. Oh god, I wonder what I smell like.

Bless her heart, she's still talking even though I'm not acknowledging her at all. I guess she assumes I'm paying attention, because how could you _not_ pay attention to someone this close."Maybe it'd be too much all over. I even a hard time even getting these bangs..." She lifts her head and sits up, back in her previous place as if nothing had happened.

My shoulder feels abnormally empty.

"I haven't had bangs for years." Demi adds with a little emphasis, probably fishing for a response from me about it.

I try to shrug off how I'm feeling and muster up an answer. _What is up with me today? Just because she's a celebrity doesn't mean you have to feel so nervous._ "They're good." I say, but the tone of my voice implies differently. It's true, I don't like them. They cover too much of her face.

"Good," Demi repeats, the single syllable followed by an amused chuckle. I'm not sure if that's her making fun of me or not so I just smile slightly in response, but it must look too strained because she's grinning that signature grin and nudging her elbow playfully into mine, "Are you okay? How are you?"

I think about it for a moment. I'm definitely not going to answer with how I'm feeling at that very moment, because I know that's only because Demi's here.

Instead, I think about how I felt this morning and this afternoon and at bootcamp; how crazy and amazing everything has been. God, where do I start? "I'm so happy. This is still, like, a dream to me... I can't believe I'm here, it's so awesome. I can't believe this is my new life. I can't believe I'm talking to you!" I can't help myself from gushing with the last part, but it's honest.

"Awww. Well, you totally deserve to be here, I wouldn't have invited you here if I didn't think you were amazing." Demi says, a warm smile on her lips. "... or the other three." She adds, like it's an after thought.

I nod in acknowledgment, not sure what to say. She thinks I'm amazing and I'm wondering how to keep it that way.

I sit there silently and out of the corner of my eye I can see that she's watching me, although it feels more like she's studying me, expecting me to say something. I search the ground for inspiration and just when I start to open my mouth to speak, Demi beats me to it.

"I can see that you're totally, like, exploding with happiness and you're so loud and talkative I can barely get a word in, but do you wanna come up stairs and see where your bunk is? I'd give you a house tour but, I honestly don't know my way around that well, and you look really tense so I think you'll enjoy seeing your bed the most."

I look up at her and smile gratefully, she's right on so many levels. "Thank you. Sorry, I am, I just... there's just been a lot to process in so little time. I need a day to let it absorb, you know?"

Demi nods, "It's totally fine, I know. I mean, if you were a sexy rockstar at all hours of the day you wouldn't be in a competition,"

 _Sexy rockstar._

I'm a little shocked and I can feel a nervous giggle starting at the back of my throat, but I encourage her to elaborate, "Why not?"

She shoots me a look like it's obvious, "There wouldn't be any competitors. You'd burn everyone up with your hotness." She's joking. She's totally joking. But she still said it aloud, so I know it's she must have meant it to some extent.

I try to address her joke, but I can't find the words because I'm kind of speechless.

With any other friend I would have shoved them in the arm and rolled my eyes. But the way Demi jokes is like a game, she baits you with something and it's your job to throw a comment back. I want to play, but I end up expressing my disbelief instead, "Oh my god, you did not just-!" I sound like such a teenage girl, and can't even finish because I don't know how, my mouths just ends up moving with no sound coming out of it. I can tell Demi's trying to withhold laughter; she's almost shaking. "Oh, whatever." I mutter.

Demi releases laugh and shakes her head a little, getting to her feet. "Don't be so tense, Jennel." She chastises teasingly, but I know she's right. I'm taking her far too seriously. "Here, let me help you with your bags."

I nod. Right - we're going upstairs. I reach for my suitcase at the same time she does. Her hand brushes mine and she gasps, retracting her hand away from mine quickly. "Ouch!" She yelps. I'm worried for a moment. _Crap, what did I do?!_

Demi examines her hand, then her eyes dart to me. The edges of her lips twitch slightly and I know that she got me again, "I was mistaken. There's still a fire burning inside you."

She shoots me a mischievous smirk before she picks up my suitcase and sets off up the stairs, humming the chorus to _Burn Baby Burn!_


	2. 12:18 AM

At the top of the first set of stairs we reach a landing that has a vaulted ceiling with a sky light at the top of it, letting in rays of the afternoon sun.

Sunshine shines off of Demi's hair and she continues to the the left, up a second flight of stairs with me in tow. At the peak of the staircase is a short hallway that flares off at one end, giving way to a large, bright room. I can just see the corner of a glass table with matching chairs surrounding it.

"Is that the kitchen?" I ask, although I'm pretty sure I've figured out as much.

Standing next to me, Demi nods her head in reply, "Yeah, fully stocked too. Not that I checked or anything." She winks in my direction. I probably smile too broadly back.

"Anyway- your bunk room!" She declares, using both hands to gesture ahead of her in a sweeping motion.

I pay attention to what's in front of me. Three closed doors; all identical black. I can already picture myself getting confused later on accidentally walking into the wrong room.

Demi points to each in turn and tells me that the guys get the far-left one, the adults get the middle one, and the girls get the one on the far-right. She goes up to the far-right one and opens it, parading inside with me in her wake.

I take a moment to survey the room. There's huge window on my right that has a breathtaking view of the LA city skyline. The window is opposite a solid white wall. 4 bunk beds are arranged against the window side, and 4 against the wall side. All the bunks are carbon copies of each other with white metal frames, grey mattresses and black pillows. There's also a white couch in the far corner, next to a door that I'm guessing leads to the en suite bathroom, but other than that there are no decorations of any sort.

I know the room was meant to have a modern feel, but it just feels cold.

"Welcome home." Demi quips.

 _Home._

Even though it still feels bizarre to call this place home, it was getting easier to wrap my head around the concept, probably as a result of Demi's hospitality.

I look to where she stands in the middle of the room, still holding my suitcase which she seems to be trying to figure out where to put. "Um, wall or window?" She asks me.

"Window." I answer, immediately. I couldn't wait to wake up and see the view of the city skyline tomorrow morning.

Demi puts down my suitcase next to one of the bunks by the window, "Top or bottom?" As she asks this, the edges of her lips twitch like she's fighting a grin, and I'm not sure why.

"Top." I say levelly, walking over and putting my satchel and backpack on the top bunk to claim it. I'm suddenly glad that I arrived earlier than anyone else. I get the first – and best – pick of where I get to sleep.

Demi leans against the bed frame, facing me. "So, are you going to the viewing party tonight?"

In all honestly, the viewing party had almost slipped my mind. It's something the X-Factor producers arranged; all the competitors are going to get together and watch and react to the premiere of the X-Factor episode where the audience finds out who's through and who's not.

"Yeah, of course." I answer, "What about you?"

"No." My heart deflates a little and I wonder why she brought it up if she's not even going to attend. "I'm watching it at home because..." Her words peter off into silence and she sounds uncertain, averting her eyes and fiddling with the lowest button on her flannel top. "The thing is... I'm not officially allowed to be here and mingle with contestants unscheduled, but you guys get such a cool house... so that's my excuse." She nods, as if convincing herself of this. "It's worth the risk."

I try not to smile at the fact that she's prolonging being here when she's not supposed to, just to show me around. I can't be as bad company as I thought.

I'm not sure what to bring up next, so to escape ending up making a fool of myself, I stoop down and pretend to be re-tying the laces on my combat boots, hoping I provide a believable performance and she can't tell that my laces were in no need of assistance.

That's when I hear a sound of a mechanic _beeeeeeeeeeeeep_ like the one the intercom made when I first arrived.

I take a moment to piece two and two together, and by that time I can already hear the voices floating upstairs of the other competitors.

Demi stands upright and starts towards the door. I stay where I am until she stops and pivots back, one hand beckoning me towards her. "Come on."

I stand up and walk towards her, and we walk together to the top of the stairs. I start to descend down them, but stop when I don't feel her beside or behind me. _Oh, right. She's not meant to be here._ Demi smiles at me when I turn back to her, "Don't I get a goodbye hug?"

The way she says it makes me feel guilty and giddy at the same time, and I obediently go back up and wrap my arms around her. We hug shortly. She initiates pulling away first, but keeps her hands on the tops of my shoulders. "You know your way back down without me." She says, a smile appearing on her features, "I don't want to be seen, so I'm heading out a different way." Her hands slide away from my shoulders and she starts to back away from me.

The voices below are growing louder, so I know there's no risk of what Demi says being overheard by anyone other than me. "Make sure you rest up for tomorrow, our mentor first session is after you finish your photoshoot. I'll see you then."

I want to ask her more; tell her more before she goes, but I know I have to settle by saying a simple, "See you." Back to two syllables.

And with that, Demi gives me a little wave and then walks briskly down the hall towards her alternate means of an exit.

* * *

When I get back downstairs, I'm almost back to reality and off of cloud Demi. Figures, that the moment she's gone, my mind starts whirring with things I wanted to say and ask her.

No one seems to notice me randomly coming down stairs, everyone crowded together abuzz with conversation. I remember that Willie's amongst these people and I feel myself smile at the thought.

I know I'll feel more calm with him with me: he is the other half of our two-person wolf pack, after all.

The wolf pack thing started sometime during bootcamp. Willie and I were sitting next to each other with nothing to do, and very out of our element in the fast-paced world of the X-Factor. So we decided that we should team up like pack-less wolves in the wild would and create our own pack.

Willie's the Alpha and I'm the Beta – or, as he like to nickname me: cachorro. It means pup in Spanish. He's lobo, which means wolf, but I hardly use it. He enjoys using the nicknames more. he invented them, after all. As soon as Willie found out about my Puerto Rican roots he surprised me by picking up a Spanish dictionary and looking up wolf terms. At first he was only kidding ( _"How about cachorro?" He had said, looking at me over the top of the dictionary. I remember laughing at how unusual it sounded to hear Spanish mixed with his mild Southern drawl, "What? It means 'pup' in Spanish doesn't it? Pretty damn cool, right? I thought it's only fair since you're the Spanish wolf of the pack, and you're small-" That earned him a punch to his arm, "I mean, small_ er _than me. But you definitely throw a punch like a guy, jeez, Jennel."_ ), but then be both agreed that it was actually a great idea because no one else would understand what we were on about, it was our thing, so the nickname stuck.

There was originally 3 in our pack. Our third was Nick Youngerman, but since he didn't make it through we're looking for a new member. I'm too shy to ask any of the other contestants to join our "wolf Pack" so I left Willie to it, he is the smooth talker after all, and if anyone could convince you of joining something it was him.

I search the crowd of arrivals for Willie and finally spot him at the back of all the activity, the last one over the threshold.

He looks like he's looking around for someone he knows so I call out to him, "Willie!"

Willie's head immediately turns toward the direction of my voice and he gets a huge grin on his face when he spots me. I start my way towards him, quickly weaving my through the throng of other contestants.

He barely manages to drop the bags he's carrying before I'm there, embracing him like it's the first time I've seen in him months.

It's only been a day since I last saw him, but being my best friend here, a day feels like much longer.

Willie's arms encircle themselves around my torso and then he hoists me up off the ground like I weigh nothing. He squeezes me gently. "We made it." He says, sounding disbelieved. "We earned it." I correct him. After giving me one last squeeze he puts me back down, giving a light kiss to the top of my head. "Hello cachorro," He murmurs into my hair. I can already feel myself relax in his presence, temporarily numbing the physical and mental tension that I've been battling all day.

It's been like this since we met, well, more accurately, he's always been like this; able to diffuse the tension and put me at ease. It feels like we've always known each other.

That's how our friendship first sparked; because our back stories were so in sync. Both of us grew up in small places with just enough to get by, looking after our younger siblings to help out our busy parents, all the while and going to a school day after day feeling like your life's a broken record, but we never quit or went astray because it was difficult. We kept at it, because it's what we had to do for things to work.

Having someone that knows exactly what you're going through, especially in a time like this where we're both going through crazy new experiences, barreling headfirst into the unknown world of the X-Factor, is really comforting. I'm so thankful to have him, he's like my rock, always there - and vice versa with me to him.

I withdraw myself from our hug.

"I left one of my bags in the shuttle, wanna come help me with it?" He asks.

"Sure." I say.

I walk out with him to a fleet of sleek black SUV's and my jaw drops a little. " _This_ is the shuttle?" I expected a bus of some kind, not vehicles that looked like secret service replicas.

Willie chuckles quietly as he approaches one, "Yeah, I know, these things are insanely cool." He opens the door of the SUV he's in front of, leans in to retrieve a brown suitcase and ducks back out. He shuts the car door behind him and joins me back on the sidewalk.

For a moment I eye the suitcase he's holding that he supposedly needed help with, which he clearly doesn't. I'm about to comment on it, but realize that he brought me with him for company, not for help.

"So, what happened to waiting for whoever showed up later?" He asks, referring to my momentary absence when he first arrived _._

"Sorry, I was upstairs." _Courtesy of Demi Lovato tours._ I bite the inside of my bottom lip, barely stopping myself from pronouncing the name.

Of course I trust Willie to tell him that Demi was the reason I was upstairs in the first place, but we're not alone and I don't know who's listening. I don't want Demi getting in trouble for giving me a sneak peek of things.

Willie's expression brightens at the word, "upstairs".

"What's it like? Heavenly?"

I smile at his enthusiasm, I don't have many details to give him but, regardless, he eats up my answer, "I've only seen the girls' bunk room, but it has an amazing view. Oh and there's a pool on the top floor that's really awesome."

"Mm-hmm," Willie hums, considering it, "I bet. This place is like something out of a dream I never knew I had. I can't wait to check it out."

"Well once we get your stuff inside we can." I say, and to prove my point, I begin to walk back the way we came.

He follows suite beside me, talking to as he goes, "We were told we're not allowed to go up until the camera crew get here and set up so they can get our reactions."

"Oh, that makes sense." What making less sense are Demi's motives for secretly showing me parts of the house if she knew the show wanted it recorded. Going against the company employing them can't be what mentor's are supposed to do. I'll have to put off thinking about it until later when I can privately tell Willie and get his thoughts on it.

We reach the front door and I go over to the intercom and to buzz us in, proud that I know how do so.

I walk back inside behind him. The foyer is still full of contestants buzzing with conversation. An indication that the camera crew clearly hasn't arrived.

Willie looks over the crowd and seems to think the same thing, a look of impatience showing on his features as he puts his suitcase down with his other things.

Although it would be nice to see more of the house, now is the perfect time for a hushed conversation. So many people are talking at once in here that it will drown out what I have to say if I say it's quiet enough for only Willie to hear.

God, I already have so much to tell him, mostly about my one-on-one time with Demi. I'm hoping he'll be able to help me work out the who/what/why/how's about it. And he'll know what to say to make me more relaxed for the next time I see Demi by myself(I'm hoping there's a next time).

Willie turns to me When I look up at his face, he's grinning like he has a secret. I'm curious, so I push what I have to say to the back of my mind for later.

"I found our third comrade." He tells me.

It takes me a second to realize he's talking about our Wolf Pack Trio-Turned-Duo. I knew he would be able to get someone to replace our missing position. "Who is it?" I ask, trying to animate my face and add eagerness to my voice.

Willie's eyes leave mine and focus somewhere behind me. He nods his head in the direction that he's looking and I turn around and see CeCe Frey approaching, with her usual disregard for blending in, wearing a bright crimson tank top. When she's within speaking distance, she holds up her hands like paws and give me a crooked smile that seems a little timid around the edges. "Woof?" It sounds like a question, like she's asking permission from me if it's okay that she fills out third spot.

I've known CeCe a little less than I've known Willie. At first I thought she was a bit stand off-ish, which intimidated me too much to try and start a conversation with her. But ever since she made it into the final 4 with us she's become a lot more chill.

And if Willie thought she was pack-material, I was going with it. Plus, it would be nice to have a close girl friend.

"Woof." I say with a nod, flashing her a smile that I hope is welcoming.

CeCe returns the smile and then looks to Willie, her eyes lighting up a little. "So, are you gonna keep all the grub for yourself, Mr. Alpha?" She asks, a trace of flirtation in her tone.

I don't know what she's talking about, but I'm guessing they must have picked up some food on the way over here. I feel my stomach growl and it dawns on me that all I've eaten today is breakfast. I bite my lip to distract myself.

"Oh, yeah," Willie says, bending down and picking up a bulky white plastic bag that's lying at his feet that I didn't even notice with the floor being the same shade, "I was with CeCe and Arin and we stopped and grabbed some food. The shuttle driver let us have a pit stop since the traffic wasn't budging anyway." He explains to me, before spreading open the plastic bag so I can see the contents inside it, "Take your pick."

There are several brown paper bags to pick from and at my first glance I can spot at least 4 different fast food logos. As I scan across the choices, Willie speaks above me, "There _was_ some pizza- if this one didn't have a snack attack on the way over."

Out of the corner of my eyes I see CeCe rub her stomach, "Girl's gotta eat." She says with a wink.

I'm only partly paying attention to them since half(alright I'll be honest, a little more than half) of my attention is on the bag of food in front of me with a couple of my favourite friends inside it, and their names are _Jack In The Box, Wendy's, Dunkin' Donuts, Taco Bell,_ and _McDonalds_. I know, it's all terrible. Terribly good. Mmm, mmm.

I hear CeCe snicker. "Jennel, are we trying to undress the food with our eyes or pick something to eat?"

I feel myself blush, not thinking I was taking _that_ long. Honestly, it's nearly impossible to choose just one, but CeCe's words hurry my choosing along and settle on picking the bag of Taco Bell. "Wow, you guys went all out. That must have been expensive. I have a few bucks if you wan-"

CeCe cuts me off before I get any further, hands on hips and shaking her head. "No way Jennay," She says, tweaking my name into a rhyme, "It's our 'Welcome to the Epic X Factor Life' treat to anyone that wants it. We all have families that can't stay in this place with us and we need a little comfort. I mean, c'mon, second to family, what's more comforting than junk food?" She's clearly thought this over and won't let me offer any funds as a "Thank You" payment. CeCe's eyes dart down to the Taco Bell I'm holding, "Unless you want to hand that back..."

I glance to Willie to see what his thoughts are since he must know where I'm coming from with wanting to give something back in return, but he's been nodding along to what CeCe's saying, so I already know he stands with her.

Although I feel a little guilty for getting the food for free, they did go and get food for everyone without being asked or expected to, so it would be even more rude to refuse.

That, and the fact that I'm _starving_ and don't have the heart to put up a fight.

CeCe's still expecting an answer, so I raise my chin a little and shake my head, "Thanks, but no thanks. These taco's need a home and my stomach's happy to oblige"

Willie chuckles to himself, "Man, we all need to catch up. I'll make my rounds with the grub and then we need to talk." He says, and I'm guessing that be 'all' he means CeCe's invited too. My heart sinks a little. I kind of wanted to share my Demi story with Willie only.

"Okay, yeah, that sounds fun." I say in spite of myself, because I'd anything I don't want do do to avoid a confrontation. I push telling Willie about Demi even further down my priority list.

If my response sounded dejected, neither of them acknowledge it.

It's a Catch-22 because I know whether I say yes or no that I'll feel guilty about it will later tonight when my head clears and I'm all ready to go to sleep it will hit me- _BAM! Remember today when you did that dumb thing? Or remember how you could have done that instead of this? Hahaha! You're going to be up all night!_

I won't let it bother me. I tell myself there's a reason for everything. It's time for new experiences, I need to say yes to the aspect of being friends with CeCe and opening up to her too, I can't have Willie to myself all the time. And who knows; maybe she'll understand me and I'll understand her and we'll click like Willie and I did.

A small voice in my subconscious asks me, _and the reason for Demi spending off the clock time with you is?_ But it's quiet enough that I ignore dwelling on it.

"You've really got to stop doing that," CeCe breaks into my thoughts and I look at her. She's staring at my mouth and I belatedly realize that I've resumed to biting my lip without even noticing. I release it and fumble for an excuse, "I... it's, it's habit. Old habits die hard right?"

CeCe tut tut's me, "Old habits need chapstick." She says.

Willie is already turning away from me to offer some of his food bounty to Emblem 3, sitting together on the nearest of the white couches. They all perk up when they see Willie coming over, but before they get even a whiff of the greasy delights, CeCe glides past and holds out her hands in front of Willie, "No, no. Ladies first." She says. Willie heaves an over-dramatic sigh and makes a show of slumping his shoulders and bowing his head, very slowly handing her the plastic bag of food as if parting with it is the toughest thing he's had to do. I can't suppress my laughter. Typical Willie.

CeCe takes it and heads over to where all the girls seem to be gravitating. I watch the back of her brunette head as the contestants in her path part for her like the red sea. I had to hand it to her, the girl knew how to get her way. Willie catches my eye and rolls his own, but follows behind CeCe. Probably making sure she doesn't give any of the girls extra handouts.

With no sign of the camera crew, it's still plenty crowded down here, and I'm pretty sure no one's risked it to sneak upstairs to investigate this place. No one seems to know where to go or what to do with themselves. At least I'm not alone in feeling nervous and out of place.

My stomach grumbles loudly and I'm reminded of my hunger. Licking my lips, I open up my bag of Taco Bell and look inside. There's a dozen or more individually wrapped tacos inside it, way more than I need unless I want to be the one that says it's over by being the fat lady who sings.

I pull a taco out for myself, then another one because I know I'll need seconds in order to be satisfied. They barely feel lukewarm now, but I couldn't care less.

Before I dig in, I bite my lip as I consider on what to do with the rest.

As much as I want to eat right now, it seems wrong to start eating just two tacos with a full bag of them next to me left untouched while someone else could be putting them to use and enjoying them. Handing it off to another person seems the obvious first choice, but I don't really know anyone other than Willie and CeCe that I'd be comfortable going up to out of nowhere.

For some reason, my mind ends up going to Demi. But I know she's not here for me to offer her some lame tacos. She's probably out at some awesome restaurant somewhere thinking I have some kind of problem. _Jennel Garcia: incredible on stage, incoherent nimrod off of it._

I roll my eyes because I'm being ridiculous; as if she'd be thinking about me.

This leaves me to choose from the ones of us still hovering in the foyer.

Since Willie's not by my side making me feel confident and calm, I look around the room for somebody that's standing on their own like me, and the closest I get to that is Emblem 3. Sure, there's three of them but they're only talking amongst themselves, and from the brief time I talked to them after Bootcamp when we exchanged compliments about each other's performance, they seemed like really nice guys.

I decide to go offer my Taco Bell to them, seeing as they probably got false hope when Willie came over, only to have his course diverted by CeCe.

I make my way over before the tacos, or my feet, get any colder.

As I approach I'm mentally trying to remember who's who. I know it's Wes, Drew and Keaton, but I'm not completely sure which name matches which face.

I'm right in front of them now and I hold out the bag of food at arm's reach so they know it's for them, keeping my two tacos separate in my other hand.

"You can have these if you want." I say, in their general direction, not singling anyone out.

Three pairs of eyes lock onto the bag I'm holding and I know they must be as hungry as I am.

"You sure?" Drew asks, glancing up at me. He's sitting in the middle of the other two. I know for sure that he's Drew because when I first saw him I remember making a mental note that that he has ear gauges like I do, though his are a size up from my baby ones.

"Yeah, take it. I have what I want right here." I say, holding up the two I have reserved for myself.

There's a moment of hesitation as if they expect me to change my mind, but then Drew grins and takes the Taco Bell bag out of my hand, "Sweet. Thanks...uh..." He trails off, and I'm pretty sure he's trying to remember my name. "Jennel, right?"

I smile slightly, appreciating fact that he actually remembered correctly, "Yeah, and you're Drew?" He nods, "And..." Now it's my turn to fumble over names. I'm grateful to be saved by embarrassment when the guy wearing a snapback hat sitting on Drew's right speaks up, "I'm Wes," He says, then points to his left. "And that's Keaton on the end."

Keaton's already well into his first taco, but gives me a _wassup_ nod.

"Cheers for the tacos." Wes says as he grabs one.

"It's no problem, really–" The words dwindle off my lips as a sudden commotion drowns me out.

Coming through the door – or trying to – are several men carrying large black duffel bags and camera equipment.

Camera crew.

About three of them head upstairs to set up and an official-looking woman in a black polo, with the words 'security' across it in white, stands at the foot of the stairs and speaks to us.

"Alright everyone, thank you for your patience. Go check it out."

* * *

A few hours later...

* * *

After getting to explore the mansion, I've decided on 3 things:

1\. at all times, the colour theme is white, transparent(apparently it's a colour) and black.

2\. all the bathrooms are the sizes of small houses

3\. sharing bunk beds suck sometimes

I had hoped I would get the top bunk that I decided on with Demi, but somehow I ended up getting manipulated by the other girls into giving up my spot. So now, not only am I on the on the bottom bunk, but I'm on the wall side of the room.

Oh, well. I'll just spend the night in a luxurious mansion with the prime spot next to an amazing view some other time.

The upside of the downside is CeCe's in the bunk above me, and she must have seen I wasn't happy about being on the bottom because she offered to rotate each night. I said no, because it's just for sleeping and I'm being an idiot.

I'm also irritable because I didn't get to talk to privately Willie like I wanted to. Any free time we might of had, after exploring the mansion, flew by when Willie and I tagged along with CeCe and a couple others to check out the Hollywood strip. I was all for it at first, but it took longer than I thought it would and when we got back we had little time to spare before the viewing party.

It's nearly 9:30pm which means everyone's either in the living room, or making there way down to it like I am.

Because I realized that my skin-tight dress was impractical for curling up on a couch and watching TV, I change into 3/4 jeans and a flowy black top.

I walk from the girls' bunk room and into the kitchen, deciding to grab an apple on the way to the living room. That is, if I can even _find_ an apple. Everything in the kitchen is so immaculately organized I have no clue what's what.

I open a cupboard at random and a white piece of paper falls out.

I pick it up off the floor and recognize what it is, because I've seen it before, there's a laminated sheet of paper just like it in every room of this place. House rules.

 _Dear contestants,_

 _In your time here please enjoy the facilities supplied and follow the set rules below. These rules are here for a reason, and failure to follow any of them will result in a warning. If rules are broken on a second occasion, he/she will be removed from mansion and premises._

 _\- No intermingling in bedrooms  
\- Coasters must be used WITH ALL DRINKS  
\- No loud music  
\- No physical altercations of any kind (not just biting)  
\- No guests  
\- "Be sensitive to others"  
\- No drinking or drugs  
\- No diving into the pool  
\- No use of fireplaces  
\- Make your own bed_

 _Sincerely,  
Simon Cowell_

I half-laugh, half-snort like I did the first time I read it. Some of the things on the list are just plain weird, but have to wonder what happened for some of the rules to get on there like the 'no biting'.

"1 minute!" I hear someone yell from the living room.

I screw getting an apple and hurry downstairs.

Everybody in the living room is gravitating around the 32" plasma television like moths to a light bulb. There are plenty of couches in from of the TV, but almost everyone is on the floor, crowded around the coffee table that's overflowing with half-empty plates of Chinese take out.

I look around until I spot Willie waving me over to where he is, on a couch with CeCe and Emblem 3. There's an empty spot for me there too, but on the opposite end that Willie's on, next to Drew. It's either that, or I stand. And I don't want to be the only one awkwardly standing around, so I decide to squeeze in between Drew and the side of the couch. He tries to move over for me, but all that does it make the couch cushion we're on tilt towards him so I have to fight even harder to sit upright. Not my first choice, but at least I sort of know him and I'm not nervous sitting by him like I would be a complete stranger.

His bandmates, Wes and Keaton, are flanking CeCe's sides with Willie on the end by Keaton.

"You excited?" Drew asks me.

I give him a smile I tell myself is believable and nod just as the opening music for X-Factor starts and the volume gets keyed up 20 notches higher. Everyone shushes each other.

The episode is harder to watch then I thought it would be and I find myself blushing through the first 15 minutes because it's me who's on the screen, getting my verdict.

As much as I want to look elsewhere, I don't look away because I'm curious to see what happens even thought I know the outcome.

It feels like I'm watching and experiencing it for the first time all over again. I hardly remember what Demi said, even though this only happened last week. All I remember is being in a haze of happiness, relief and shock. Then when I found Jillian didn't make it I couldn't let myself celebrate my gain, but rather help her with her loss. X Factor's loss, more like it.

I watch as Demi slowly talks to my TV-self on screen, "I just wanted to start of by saying you have an incredible voice, there's no doubt about that... the first time I saw you I was just, blown away." The words are vaguely familiar to me, but they still make my heart soar.

She goes on to tell TV-me about how I need to work on not being in insecure, and I watch my TV-self's face fall a little. _Don't worry, me!_ I want to tell her. _You'll be put out of your misery soon._

"I've made my decision... Jennel." TV-Demi lets my name hang in the air, prolonging delivering the news to my TV-self like all reality show hosts did. "You're in my final four!"

I'm so engrossed in the TV, I nearly jump out of my seat in surprise when everyone around me erupts in cheers, Willie being the loudest, " _YEAH!_ That's what I'm talking about!" He woops.

Drew turns to me and I can see him smile at me in the illumination of the TV. "You did awesome."

I'm not sure why Drew keeps making a point to talk to me because I'm sure the look on my face shows I'm too exhausted for small talk, so I do the safest thing and politely reflect the compliment back to him, "Thanks, you too."

Wes, who somehow ended up on the floor in front of us, hears this and whips around with his mouth agape. "Is he taking all the credit?" He asks with mock-shock, looking at me then to Drew with narrowed eyes. It's actually quite hilarious to watch and it becomes clear to me that he's the joker out of the boy band. "Dude, that's band mutiny!" He declares, loudly, and everyone shushes him. Drew knocks off Wes' snap back, mussing up his hair and telling him to shut up.

* * *

" _Guess it's better you trapped yourself in your own way,  
and if you want me back,  
you're gonna have to ask,  
nicer than that."_

Even at a low volume, The Used song playing out of my iPod echoes around the tiled bathroom walls as I finish brushing my teeth and changing into my pajamas. I've already showered and put my hair into braids so it will be somewhat maintained for the hair stylists to deal with tomorrow.

I hum along as the song finishes, before I plug in the earphones so I don't disturb any of the other girls, unlocking the bathroom door and tip toeing quietly over to my bunk.

The lights are off, but I know many of us are still awake. Homesick, excited, thinking - or all of the above.

The mattress creaks a little as I sit into my bunk and I can hear CeCe furiously texting away on her phone above me.

I'm reminded of my own phone, and reach for my satchel to get it out. There's a goodnight and good luck text from mom, but that's it. I reply to her with a goodnight and then open up my contact list.

I scroll through the list, the A's, the B's, the C's. I'm not really close with any of them. Most of my contacts are people from my high school that haven't made an effort to talk to me since I graduated, but ever since I made it onto X Factor I've received surge kiss-ass texts from a bunch of them like: "I'm so happy for you. We need to get to together and talk! I love you so much! Team Jennel!" although the majority of the time it looked more like: "OMG! im so happy 4 u! we need 2 catch up ily. team jennel lol."

I scroll until reach the D's and my thumb hovers a little longer over Demi's name. She was listed as "Demi Lovato" with a star next to her name.

My stomach twisted nervously as I think about tomorrow and all that's to come. I'm not so worried about the photo shoot part since I'll be in clothes and make up that aren't mine which will make it easy to pretend I'm a sexier and more confident person. Pretend is easy. The thing I'm most worried about most is my first mentoring session with Demi. What song is she going to choose? What if she hates the way I do it? What If I touch my hair too much? What advice is she going to give me? I know for sure that she still wants me to step up my confidence. Even today she dropped hints that I needed to loosen up, and we were in a totally a casual setting, and I'm pretty sure I didn't take the hint because she had to remind me several times.

God, the last thing I want to do is disappoint her.

I can feel a frown worry itself onto my forehead, and I've started chewing on my lower lip again. I can hear CeCe's voice in my mind telling me to quit it, but I don't listen.

Before I can stop myself, I tap Demi's name and bring up a new message window.

I type the question that concerns me most then hit send.

Me: "Are you sure I can do this?"

As I wait for a reply, I glance at the upper corner of my phone's screen and I feel a pang of guilt for texting her at such a late hour. It's almost midnight and I probably woke her up by because I'm having a stupid nerves. But another part of me knows Demi is my mentor, and being our age she probably expects and understands that her contestants could be riding on a roller coaster of emotions at any hour of the day. And she did say to call anytime...

My phone buzzes in my hand and I almost drop it. Her name pops up as the sender's address and I open the new message.

Demi: "Who is this?"

I'm confused for a second, but then I remember that she only gave us her number, we didn't give her ours. I start to type my name but then backspace over it because I need to bring justice my tense and awkward past self and come up with a smart way of telling her who I am. I think of out conversation today and grin as I type back.

Me: "I'm the hot one."

I'm not flirting with her... just reminding her who I am.

I wait.

It's 12:01 now.

 _Give her 10 minutes and then go to sleep._ I uncoil from my sitting position and lie down.

I'm on top of the covers, but it's too hot for me to need them.

A light turns on beside me and I look over to see Paige is holding a flashlight, aiming it at a notepad that she's hastily writing something in with her other hand.

I give her privacy and divert my gaze to the mattress above me, my eyes tracing the perimeter of the area that's sinks under CeCe's weight. I'm just trying to waste time so Demi will text back faster.

I cave, and check to see that it's 12:05.

 _5 more minutes._

What's taking so long? I bet it didn't go through and she thinks she's being left hanging by some insecure anonymous weirdo.

12:06.

 _4 more minutes._

Just in case, I resend my first message, because I'm really hoping to get answer in order to get to sleep without worrying.

Me: "Are you sure I can do this?"

I stare at my phone, watching the 12:06 become 12:07, and then 12:08. Then 12:09... 12:10... 12:11. _She's not texting you back._

Feeling defeated, my eyes sting a little as I put my phone down and slip it under my pillow.

I'm untangling the earphone wires to my iPod, because I always fall asleep listening to music, when my pillow vibrates. My heart skips a beat. I instantly reach under my pillow and grab my phone. I tap the screen; this has to be her.

New Message (1) Demi Lovato. 12:18am.

I open it.

Demi: "I know you can do absolutely anything. See you tomorrow x"

That's it. I read it a a couple of times before it sinks in, then silently close my phone and tuck it back beneath my pillow. _I know you can do absolutely anything._

I put in my earphones and press play.

 _I know you can do absolutely anything._

8 minutes late but:

 _I know you can do absolutely anything._

My iPod plays, the tangled earphone wires curving around my cheeks and framing my gigantic smile.


	3. Relax?

"Jennel?"

I hear my name being called through the haze of my sleeping state.

"... Jennelly?" It's a girl's voice.

An unintelligible mumble is all I can rouse out of myself, because I'm not ready to wake up just yet. I'm not sure who's trying to ruin my slumber, but they aren't welcome to.

As much as I would like it to be, the voice saying my name is not imagined and persists, "All the other girls are downstairs... the bathroom's free. Better take your chance." The voice reasons with me.

Someone's cold hand touches the spot behind my knee, and I turn onto my back trying to escape it. "Wake up, sleepy!" The voice orders. The hand disappears until I feel it on my ankle, dangerously close to where I'm the most ticklish.

As if reading my thoughts, I hear the voice contemplating aloud, "I wonder if you have ticklish feet..." I finally place the devious voice as CeCe's.

The threat of getting tickled is enough to get my attention, and I begin to come to my senses. On one hand, I would love to return to my, surprisingly peaceful, sleep. On the other hand, I'm grateful she's trying to wake me, seeing as I had been stupid enough to forget to set an alarm the night before.

My mind is still foggy with sleep as I try to recall a few things. A) what the date was: October 24th B) where I was: X Factor mansion and C) if answer B) is true, was I still dreaming this up or not?

Keeping my eyes closed to savour how comfortable I feel a little longer, I take a second to run today's agenda through my mind. Today would be a day of make up, wardrobe and pictures. Following that, much like dessert being the sweet item saved for last, I'd see Demi.

I fight the urge to smile as I return to the mantra I had fallen asleep telling myself, _I know you can do absolutely anything._

CeCe drums her finger tips against the top of my foot, "You better get up. Half the day is gone." She states, matter-of-factly.

The few simple words work very effectively on me, even half-awake, I know what they mean.

 _Oh shit._ _I slept through the day?_ That means I missed my photoshoot and my mentor session. Simon will probably boot me off the show as punishment, and tell the publicity I had a breakdown and couldn't continue in the competition. Not to mention how disappointed Demi will be... especially after she covertly text me back last night with her faith in me. I can't believe I slept through the day and fucked it all up.I feel nauseous, my heart heavy and uncomfortable in my chest. I force myself up into a sitting position, way quicker than I should have according to the throbbing that it triggers in the back of my head. But it doesn't matter, because according to CeCe I slept the whole day away and therefore I had no time to waste.

As I rub my face, trying to wipe the sleep from it, a slew of different sentence beginnings form in my mind, but none make it out of my mouth. My throat feels too tight, the indication I know comes before an onslaught tears, and I clear it just before I open my eyes to the blinding light of the sun rising. _Oh, thank god._

I breath a deep sigh of relief, because there is no need to panic.

It's unmistakeably easy to see where the sun is out of the ridiculous huge floor-to-ceiling window. After a moment of squinting and adjusting my eyes to the brightness, I can tell that the sun if way too low on the horizon to be halfway through the day. It's still early morning.

Even if it was at the cost of a near panic attack, I had to give points to CeCe for managing to connive into her way for the umpteenth time.

I'm _definitely_ awake now, and I can _definitely_ pick up my pillow and throw it.

With a small huff, partly because I'm frustrated and partly because my heart is still racing for thinking I had screwed my day and I need to take extra breaths, I reach behind me to grasp my pillow in one hand, "CeCe!" I'm hoping to sound indignant rather than impressed at her sly and effective tactic of get me up, because it _was_ good, even if it was a rude awakening. "It's not half way through-" I toss my pillow at her, "-the day you butthead!"

My feather-stuffed weapon gets easily deflected onto the floor by CeCe's quick hand, laughing from where she is sitting, on the bed at my feet. Her shiny pink-glossed lips curve into an impish smile.

I'm looking at her properly for the first time since I woke up, and I can't quite comprehend what I'm seeing. There's something... off about her appearance, and it has something to do with her hair. I swear, it looks blonde from where I'm sitting. Probably because of the harsh back light of the sun. I blink, clearly still looking through tired eyes.

As I blink a few times in a row, probably looking crazy, CeCe briefs me in with correct information, "It's only a little past 7, don't worry. I just wanted to see how you'd react. You were so out of it, I tried calling your name but that didn't work so... you know."

I roll my eyes at her, trying my best not to stare at the peculiar state of her appearance. Because, despite my best efforts of clearing my vision, I know I'm not seeing things. CeCe's brown hair was gone, replaced with bleached blonde hair, currently braided back into a pony tail off of her face. I'm confused at the drastic change in colour. I was clearly out of the loop; someone wielding blonde hair dye had come around and changed my bunk mate's hair while I had slept.

Warily, I inspect one of my braids, comforted to see that my chestnut brown hair was unchanged.

As casually as possible, I try to bring attention to it, "So, your hair... that's... uh, new."

A troubled expression flashes across CeCe's features for a split second, "What? You think it's bad?"

I shake my head no, and as quickly as it had appeared, her fretful expression gives way to a smile.

"I'm just surprised." I say, "I go to sleep for a few hours and you go blonde? What's in the air up there?"

" _Platinum_ blonde," CeCe amends me, going on to explain, "I was woken up by a phone call from this guy that said I had to get to the prep room ASAP. I know Demi said something about us getting makeovers at some point, but I thought a makeover would just be makeup. God, I was scared shitless when they brought the foils out..." She trails off, thoughtful, "But I think it's a fitting new start to my new life. A clean slate for me to CeCe-fy, right?"

I nod along to her words. I knew that if you were spontaneously called to the prep room, you were going to leave it looking like a different looking person. The prep room was a huge powder room on the second floor of the mansion with mirrors and lights, especially made for us to go to apply make up and have out hair done on the days we had live performances or public events.

I'm crossing my fingers that I don't get an early call to go to the prep room. I love my natural hair, and it's length. As for makeup: I hated wearing it excessively for no reason. Eyeliner and mascara is my go-to thing, I didn't want or need that complicated.

CeCe clears her throat, trying to get my attention. I've been tuned out for too long. "Sooo, what do you think of it?" She asks.

Now that I know the blonde locks are intended and not a trick of my eyes, I'm starting to like the new hair color on her. Sure, she looks like a completely different person... but in a good way.

"It's great." I reply with a smile, "You kind of look like a celebrity."

The look on CeCe's face tells me that she's heard the line before, "Oh, you mean Miley Cyrus?"

"No," Miley did spring to mind, but someone else did first, if I could remember the name, "More like..." I trail off as I think it over for a second. CeCe's new look definitely reminded me of someone I'd seen in a movie recently. I look around me as I try to remember. In the process, I absentmindedly glance down at my over sized pajama top which is covered with _'The Pirates of The Caribbean'_ logos and miniature Jack Sparrow figures. The sight of it triggers an imaginary light bulb to ignite inside my head.

I had watched ' _The Rum Diary'_ a while back, and acting opposite Johnny Depp was CeCe's blonde similarity. "I'm getting an Amber Heard vibe." I vouch, hoping that like me, CeCe had watched _'The Rum Diary'_ for Johnny Depp's amazing self and knew who I was referring to.

CeCe makes a 'not bad' face, and pushes herself up from my bunk. We've been talking for a few minutes, I guess it's time for both of us to start getting ready for the day ahead.

Or, rather, just me.

CeCe's already dressed up in high-waist leopard print shorts and a pale yellow top that shows off a section of her her toned midriff. I make a mental note to use the in-mansion gym we have access to. Because, what "home" would be complete without a home gym?

I spread my legs out into a V and lean forward so I'm stretching away the stiffness in them like I would before dancing. After I count for a few seconds, I lean back up to the sound of CeCe's voice, "Once you're dressed, meet me in the kitchen for some food, okay?" It sounds more like an instruction than a an offer.

The back of her blonde head is already at the door when I answer with a quiet, "'Kay."

Once I've stretched my arms out wide until I'm satisfied none of my limbs feel stiff, I shift my legs over the bed and get onto my knees in order to reach under the bunk and pull out my suitcase full of clothes.

It felt a little ridiculous to be keeping my clothes in my suitcase under my bed when the bunk room had an awesome walk in closet. But with all the other girls' clothes already hanging up, I'm too paranoid I would lose something of mine in the midst of it all, so I was sticking to my suitcase and risk having to wear wrinkled clothes.

I unzip the suitcase and lift off the lid, staring down at the colorful contents and waiting for inspiration to strike.

I know that what I wear today won't effect the photoshoot, since they would provide cooler clothes, but I did get a say in what I wore to the mentor session with Demi. I didn't want to look too over or under dressed. The line between the two was very fine.

For a moment, I debate whether or not to go and ask CeCe to come back and help me decide, but I know I can't have my hand held through decision making anymore.

I was a young adult now, so I would handle this like any young adult in a what-to-wear crisis would. A process of elimination.

My eyes gravitate towards a bright yellow dress that my best friend, Andrea, had given me for my Birthday. I had worn it for good luck on the initial flight from Rochester to LA, but it seemed too bold to wear today.

I've packed two other dresses, but Demi had already seen me in one yesterday, and the other is dark colored denim with a floral print but I know that it's snug and restricts my chest, and since I would be singing this afternoon, I couldn't allow anything to impair my breathing.

I move onto my packed shirts, sorting through the small selection before I make my decision, close my suitcase, and get up to change.

After spending 10 minutes in the en suite bathroom getting ready, I step back into the bunk room wearing my sleeveless white shirt with a black and white close up picture of a snarling tiger's face on the front. I guess I'm hoping that the ferocity of my shirt will make up for the lack of ferocity in the person wearing it. I have paired the shirt with my denim shorts and black vans. I leave my hair in their messy braids and I don't put on make up since the photoshoot called for a product-free face so that the professional make up artists could do their job.

Before I leave the room to get breakfast, I retrieve my pillow, still on the floor from being thrown at CeCe, and I hide my iPod under it in the place of my phone, which I carry with me as I'm walking out of the room and into the hall.

The delicious aroma of buttered toast and brewing coffee hangs in the air.

I look down at my phone's screen, bringing it to life with a small tap. I'm greeted with an alert telling me that I have (3) new messages. I open them each: 1 from mom, 1 from my sister, and 1 from Andrea. Most of them have the same gist of missing me and wishing me their luck. God, I missed them all so much. My family, my friends, my dance students. I even missed fixing cars in my dad's garage. But I knew Rochester would always be there waiting for me. I just had to keep reminding myself that.

I'm at standstill in the middle of the hallway, trying to reply to my texts as quickly as possible so they don't worry and so I can get to breakfast.

There was only one thing that came close after focusing on succeeding in this competition and missing home. That one thing is food.

I have just finished sending my I love you's, I miss you's and I'll kick ass and make you proud don't worry's when CeCe's head pops around the kitchen corner. She glances down at my shirt and curls her upper lip into a facial expression meant to mimic it, "Come and eat with us, tiger."

That's all the encouragement I need.

I find out that "us" meant Willie and Diamond. They sit together on 2 of the numerous bar stools that go along the side of the granite island in the centre of the spacious kitchen. Diamond is on his right, so I go for the empty seat no his left.

"Good morning." He welcomes me as I sit, smiling in my direction. I only receive a nod from Diamond, since it looks like Willie has given her his iPod to listen to as she crunches on a piece of toast.

"Morning." I respond, reaching to get a piece of toast for myself from a large, square blue plate in the middle of the island. There are several pieces on it varying in cooking time, creating an array of toast that goes from brunt charcoal to still being bread. I pick a lightly browned piece, chewing at the corner of it as I watch CeCe, who has self-decidedly taking on the role of being this morning's chef. "What's cooking?" I ask.

CeCe is by the counter, determinedly sifting through an open drawer. By the metallic sounds I hear, she's probably searching for utensils. There's a frying pan being heated up on the stove next to a a carton of a dozen eggs and a bottle of olive oil. "Eggs. Want one, tiger?" CeCe asks me without looking up from her search.

"Yeah, thanks." I say, gratefully.

I'm about to ask Willie something, but CeCe's voice overrides me, "Do you want fried, poached, boiled, scrambled..." She pauses when she pulls out a frying pan with a green handle, victoriously holding it in the air, "Aha! Finally." Her eyes draw themselves to me, "I'm just kidding about the choices, by the way, fried eggs is all that I can do."

"That's fine," I say. I couldn't care less, I would eat anything she made. In fact, I'd probably eat anything put in front of me. The tacos and street food we had had eaten while on the Hollywood strip yesterday were long gone from my system.

CeCe starts to crack a few eggs into the pan and I turn to look at Willie, "Did she tell you what she pulled on me this morning?" I ask, pointedly looking to CeCe, who undoubtedly overheard, leaning backwards a little and poking her tongue out at me in response.

A chuckle sounds deep inside Willie's chest, "Sure did. She's got spunk like you. I think she'll fit into the pack nicely, don't you?"

I just roll my eyes, nibbling away at the last of my toast. I had to admit, I was quickly warming up to CeCe. Her take no-bullshit attitude was refreshing and entertaining.

I pick up a second piece of toast. "So, have you used your brilliance to come up with a nickname for her?"

Nodding, Willie answers me without a beat. Clearly he had come up with something. "Rubia loca."

CeCe whips around from where she stands by the stove, pointing the paddle side of her spatula at Willie from across the island, "Hey," She says sternly, "I took a semester of Spanish. I know loca means crazy."

I try not to laugh when Willie challenges her knowledge, "Alright, what does rubia mean then?"

CeCe's assertiveness falters, lips pursed and a look of concentration on her face, "I don't know..." She makes a 'tsk' sound and poises herself. "I bet you wouldn't even know without your damn translator."

"True." Willie says.

"What's the Spanish word for ass?"

Choosing to ignore the remark, Willie replies, "Careful CeCe, don't want to burn your eggs."

"I think I'll stick to burning yours." CeCe mutters under her breath.

With perfect timing, Beatrice strolls in and contributes to the conversation, "Children, behave."

* * *

After breakfast, a shuttle picks up me, Willie, Bea and Diamond and drives us to the CBS studios, taking us past security and around the back to a large warehouse where our photoshoot is to take place.

I stay by Willie's side until we enter the warehouse and are separated by X Factor crew members telling us we need to get ready.

The interior of the warehouse is huge. On the far wall, several mirrors framed with light bulbs and fold up chairs are set up hair an make up. In the middle f the warehouse, taking up most of the room, is an elaborate set up for the photoshoot. The set up consists of a white back drop with a circular, white raised platform in front of it, a line of duct tape is in the center marking where the contestants are supposed to stand. Lights of all shapes and sizes are pointed the white back drop, along with a man in a black v-neck holding a camera with a long cylindrical lens, currently ushering a glamorous looking Lyric 145 onto the platform. I notice that there are other men around the place with large video cameras hoisted up on their shoulders, and I recognize then from yesterday's camera crew.

Time to pretend.

A production member escorts me to one of the hair and makeup stations. I'm greeted with a slender, strawberry-blonde haired woman who introduces herself as Susan and says she'll be in charge of my hair, makeup and wardrobe for the day.

As soon as we're done greeting each other she wheels out a rack of clothing. The colour scheme is mostly made up of various grey and black hues and there's a tag on the end of the rack with my name on it. All of these clothes were solely for me to choose from. I had to admit, that was kind of cool.

Thankfully, Susan and I seem to be on the same page style-wise, and don't take long to decide on an outfit together; black leather pants and a sleeveless black leather jacket with a fringe, worn over top of a a grey tank top with black outline of a motorbike on the front. Susan lets me have privacy by showing me to the makeshift change room. And by makeshift, I mean a 7 ft tall piece of thick white fabric stretched between two poles across a corner of the the warehouse.

It's probably the quickest change I've ever done, fearful I'd get walked in on. When I'm done, Susan takes the articles of clothing I had been wearing before, putting them on the rack of my designated wardrobe rack.

"What about shoes? Do you want to wear heels?" Susan asks, looking down at my feet.

 _Heels? Never!_ As calmly as I can, so she won't think I'm overreacting, I reply, "Not if I can avoid it."

Susan understands, probably because she's wearing uncomfortable looking six inch heels at this very moment. "That's fine by me. It's just upper body shots anyway." She reassures me.

 _Wardrobe, check._ I say to myself, _The easy part._ I remind myself.

"Alright, let's get you into make up," As soon as Susan says the words, I feel a familiar queasy sensation in my stomach. On account of never knowing when the cameramen will pan to me, I make sure to hide my nerves with smile when I sit down in a make up chair, trusting that whatever Susan thought looked good would look good. I chide myself internally, _Don't be so dramatic, she's a professional. Of course you'll look good._

I take a last look at the mirror in front of me. At a glance I actually could pass as a legitimate rockstar, but once I go beyond the clothes and focus on my face and body language, I can see how timid I still look.

My teeth pull at my bottom lip as I catch a glimpse at all the make up covering the table below my mirror; the ticket to completing my look.

Susan picks up a large make up brush and a pot of something white. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, letting her practiced hands transform my face.

For the half hour or so I'm at the will of her commands. Hearing things like: _"Close your eyes."_ , _"Now open." ,"Tilt your head this way.", "Now the other way.", "Part your lips.", "Close your eyes again.", "Smile.", "Look up.", "Tell me if this feels alright."._

For the most part, I avoid looking directly at my reflection until Susan tells me she was done and to let her know what I think.

 _Wow_ is the first word that comes to mind, and I say it aloud too, which seems to please her.

I can only half-recognize the reflection I see in the mirror. My eyelids are coated with rose colored eye shadow, offsetting heavy black mascara and black eye liner that give me something reminiscent of a smoky eyes. The rest of my features are left fairly natural; my eyebrows lined, a light gloss on my lips and overall foundation coverage to make my skin look impeccable and as far from the real thing as possible. Some would probably find how I look beautiful, but it looks strange to me.

My face has been transformed into a perfect mask. I don't recognize myself, but the reflection blinks when I blink, sighs when I sigh, and has an uncertain glint in it's eyes like I know I do.

I only take few seconds to soak myself in then I get up out of my chair so Susan can take me to sort out my hair situation. She guides me to a chair that sits in front of an identical mirror and lights like the one I had been seated in front of before, only this time it wasn't makeup paraphernalia all over the table. Instead, arranged neatly in front of me is any and every hair tool imaginable. I actually don't recognize a few pieces of the equipment. It kind of looks like a torture station.

Susan unravels my braids and asks if I'm particular about how I want my hair styled. I tell her that I'm not and I hear the click-click of a hair straightener. _Goodbye curls._

This time I watch as my wavy hair is taken, section by section, and clamped between the straightener, pulled downwards slowly until she reaches the ends, then repeating it until my stubborn hair is tamed into looking straight and silky.

By the end of it, I'm surprised at how much I like the final product. In the past, I had straightened my hair a couple times for dance recitals, but my attempt at straightening didn't come close to how brilliant my hair looks now.

"Okay, Jennel we're done." Susan informs me once she spritzes my hair with an aerosol can of hairspray. That's my queue to get up and get directed to my next location.

I stand, turning my back to the mirror that's showing a less accurate looking me. "Where do I go now?" I ask.

Susan smiles warmly and points towards the heart of the warehouse. "See the man over there with the black shirt that says 'crew' in white? That's Jim." My eye follow the spot she's pointing to, just beside the photo shoot set up, and sure enough right beside it is a man with a black shirt with 'crew' on the front. He has a table next to him with shiny items on it. "He'll decide if you need any jewellery or touch ups and make sure everything is in place before you can do your shoot. Good luck."

I thank Susan for her time and make my way towards Jim. On the way, I spot Willie by the change room, dressed in an electric blue suit. I catch his eye and give him an encouraging thumbs up. He mirrors my hand gesture while mouthing the word "Wow."

When I reach Jim, he decides it's necessary that I need to wear my weight in jewellery, and when he gives me to OK to proceed to the raised white platform, I'm 7 necklaces and 4 bracelets heavier.

I barely get my second foot on the platform and I'm getting my hand shaken by the photographer.

I tell him my name and he introduces himself as Jack.

After he lets go of my hand Jack gives me a once over with his eyes, nodding in approval, "I like it, very rockstar." His eyes shift to my feet; my own pair of vans. "No heels?" He questions. I'm hoping that he doesn't think that's a bad thing when he adds, "I like it."

I stand on the duct tape maker when he encourages me to, keeping a slight smile on my face at all times. Sometimes it's real, sometimes it's not.

Quiet music plays near where I'm standing and I manage to find the source: a tall speaker that's behind Jack, alongside a long mirror that I can see the length of my body in.

My reflection stares back at me.

Before I can pick my image apart, I try my not to look at myself so critically and pretend to I'm seeing how I look through a new pair of eyes. I give it a go, and I have to admit, I _do_ look like a rockstar in all the gear I have on. I look confident. Pretty. Maybe I'd even go as far as using the word sexy. I ask myself: _Would Demi be proud?_

I hope so.

Jack adjusts a dial on his camera and aims it at me. I look into the barrel of it, posing myself, all the while straining my ears to try and keep up with the quiet music playing behind him, because music always helped me loosen up and harness my inner, dance-like-no-one's-watching-self.

Before Jack takes a single shot, he lowers his camera and smiles gently at me, not condescending- but understanding. He knows I'm distracted, "I think we should turn up the music, don't you?" He asks.

I don't even have to say a word for him to know my answer. (I was a contestant on X Factor, of course I wanted to hear music!) He lifts a palm-sized remote out from the front pocket of his jeans and taps it a few times.

Those few taps are all it takes for the whole atmosphere to shift.

The warehouse has amazing acoustics, and I can faintly feel the bass beneath my feet; a thrumming that matches the steady beat of my heart. I fix a smile to my face, a genuine one. _There we go._ I think. _Own it, you're a_ rockstar _._ I take once last glance at how I look in the mirror and I can finally whole-heartedly believe it.

A cameraman comes over and start filming from the sidelines.

I can still hear Jack's voice over the music, giving me constant prompts, guides and showering me with encouragement. "Okay, Jennel, remember to relax." The flash goes off as he takes my picture, "Nice!" Flash. "Feel the music, dance if you want to. Yes, there we go you've got it!" Flash. "Now, look right at the camera, smile, hold it..." Flash. "That's great! Now flip your hair." Flash. "Awesome job, look down and... hold it right there," Flash. "I love it! You're a natural. Well done, Jennel, now if you could move your right arm up a little- perfect hold it right there!" Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

After a few shots my natural instincts take over. And I'm glad that the cameras are on me, I want them to see this side of me. I wasn't worrying anymore. I had embraced how fierce I looked on the outside, convincing my inside to match. And in the time that it lasted, it felt amazing. _I_ felt amazing.

Everything after that is a blur.

Following the photoshoot, Susan has me change into a second outfit, coaxing me back into the make up chair and re-doing my make up and crimping my straight hair.

I even let her put me in heels, which seem okay for 5 minutes until I have to stand up and walk around in them. I do a couple interviews, and the camera crew gets some footage of me walking around in front of a green screen that's set up outside the warehouse, hair flipping and winking at the camera for the intro slate that would play before each one of my X-Factor performances.

As soon as someone says it's a wrap, the first thing I do is step out of my heels and give them back to Susan. She returns my own set clothes to me, and I drop my chic rocker outfit along with my rocker confidence.

* * *

I nervously fold and unfold the piece of notepaper I'm holding until it's about ready to tear in half.

My mentor session still hasn't started. I have until 11 until I'm allowed to go into the room.

I check my phone, which lies next to me so I can periodically check the time. It's 10 to.

I'm inside CBS studios in the exact place that a crew member led me to, on the second floor, waiting in the hall on a white couch identical to the ones in the mansion.

I stare at the opaque-glass door in front of me, sealing off the mentor room which I'll soon be allowed access to. I haven't been inside yet it yet but I know that the room used to be a dressing room for American Idol and was re-modeled recently just for the X Factor's use.

I rest my phone down and go back to fiddling with the creased piece of paper I'm holding, inked with my neat handwriting.

It was recommended that competitors put a list of songs together to give to your mentor that you would like to perform live.

In the briefing I received from a production manager immediately after I was told I made it to the final 4, he made it clear that there was no guarantee I would be able to perform any of the songs I wanted to do, but my choices would be taken into consideration. I had had weeks to make my final cut of songs to put on my song wishlist, and since I loved so many, the only way I ended up deciding was by putting my iPod on shuffle and recording my results:

 _Home Sweet Home – Motley Crew  
You Oughta Know – Alanis Morrisette  
Unskinny Bop – Poison  
I Love Rock and Roll – Joan Jett  
Marry The Night – Lady Gaga  
Homewrecker – Marina and the Diamonds  
Gold On The Ceiling – The Black Keys  
Where Have You Been – Rihanna  
I Want To – Best Coast  
Sweet Nothing – Calvin Harris featuring Florence Welch  
Young Folks - Peter Bjorn and John_

I start to reach for my phone again when the mentor-room door opens and a young man in a paisley beanie steps out of the room towards me. He has warm brown eyes and a smile on his face.

"Hello. Are you Jennel Garica?" He asks. As friendly as he looks and sounds, I don't recognize him.

Did Demi send him to mentor me instead of coming herself? Did she not want to see me today? My head fills with questions of doubt and confusion in a matter of seconds, but I know I shouldn't be jumping to unvalidated conclusions. So I try to act as normal as possible.

"Yeah, that's me." I say quietly. He offers his hand, and I delay a moment before I go to shake it.

My hesitation must have been noticeable because he quickly introduces himself, "Oh sorry, we haven't met before. I'm Eddie, I'll be your vocal coach in your time here." He explains with a grin. Vocal coach. That was different from being my mentor. Demi _is_ here!

I can't help but smile brightly, failing horribly to try and keep the relief and excitement from showing on my face _._

Eddie must think I'm just super happy to see him, because he smiles back down at me. "I look forward to working with you, Jennel. I've heard great things."

My cheeks burn a little from the compliment, "Oh, thank you." I say.

I'm curious to know if Demi has been saying those great things. She was the only one that would talk about me.

Yeah, I know it _had_ to have been Demi.

"Anyway," Eddie starts, "You can come on in now. Demi is ready for you."

I get to me feet, stashing my phone back in my pocket and holding my song list securely in my hand.

The mentor-room resembles something that looks like living room. Correction: a living room on steroids.

A bright red couch is positioned right by the door with a large canvas above it boasting a grey squiggly design that barely passes as art. But it's not the worst painting in the room. On a separate wall there's a second canvas that's covered in various shades of hot pink and it hurts my eyes just to look at it. In front of the pink monstrosity are two black stools that sit beside a keyboard and a mic stand. The last thing I notice is the many tall, palm-tree like plants scattered around the room for decoration. I can't spot any cameras, but I know that just because they aren't visible to the eye doesn't make them nonexistent.

The most important element in the room, is the person currently occupying one of the stools. Blonde hair wrapped in a bun on the top of her head and wearing a black pantsuit; my mentor.

Demi hasn't gone au natural this time. I could see her red lipstick and fake lashes from a mile away. But she's still Demi Lovato, and it's still wonderful to see her.

"Hi Jennel." She welcomes me, her red lips forming into a small smile as I head towards the vacant stool opposite her. Eddie goes around and sits behind the keyboard set up.

I pause before I sit down myself, unsure whether to give a hug to Demi. I get my answer by the way she watches me steadily, with an unreadable expression, making no move to get up and welcome me into an embrace. No hugging. I should have figured as much; she isn't allowed to show extra and unnecessary affection towards competitors, especially with Eddie's extra pair of eyes as witness.

The 2 hugs I had received yesterday had happened during impermissible fraternization. I inwardly scold myself. I shouldn't have gotten used to something that would probably never happen again unless it was scripted. A small voice in the back of my mind reminds me that there is second scenario where we could hug, if we were alone together. But the chances of that are incredibly slim with the live shows just around the corner.

"Have a seat." Demi says, since I'm still hovering by my stool. I do as she says, still adjusting to the professional air she has about her.

 _You're here to be mentored. Get used to it._ I tell myself. _  
_

Demi's eyes shift to the piece of paper I have. "Is that your song list?" She asks.

I hold it out for her to take from me, "Yeah, just a couple songs that I like..." I trail off lamely as she reaches for it. Our fingertips touch briefly in the transit of the notepaper, "They're in no order, and it's just an outline. If you don't like it, I have more that I can, um..." I'm rambling a little now and I can't think of how to finish my sentence, so I resort to closing my mouth and sitting silently, nothing but nervous.

Bobbing her head slightly, Demi scans through my song list, "I love it. You're definitely in a genre different from the other contestants, but... at the same time we don't want you to be predictable."

Reflexively, I nod in a agreement and try not to feel offended This was the kind of constructive criticism I would be getting from now on. A compliment about something you are doing well, followed by a comment that suggests a way to change that 'well' into 'fantastic', because 'well' isn't good enough.

Demi passes my song list to the vocal coach, "I think we should try _Home Sweet Home_." She suggests.

Eddie studies my song selection, nodding his head he then places it down on the keyboard in front of him. "Let's give it a go." He stands up as he speaks, making his way out from behind the keyboard, "I'll be back with the sheet music." Next, referring to me, he says, "Do you need the lyrics?"

I nod in response and he excuses himself from the room to retrieve what's needed.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind Eddie Demi looks at me and grins, the happiest looking expression she's made since I arrived, breaking out of her serious persona and reverting back to the lively Demi I saw yesterday, "Sorry if what just happened made you feel weird, I have to keep it profesh." She says.

The warmth in her face and friendliness in her voice lessens my nerves considerably and I have the urge to smile back at her and take advantage of the time we have without Eddie here, but I have make sure we really are alone. I don't want Demi to get into trouble. I lower the volume of my voice for my following question, "Are there any cameras here?"

Demi laughs lightly at my attempt at subtly, clearly not worried about it herself. "Nope." She replies, bringing her lips together to pop the 'p'. "They pushed filming to tomorrow, so this is kind of like a rehearsal. An extra lesson so we can get comfortable with each other since this is the first time we've seen each other in a few days." She says this while tapping the side of her nose with her index finger, signalling to keep yesterday hush hush.

I still haven't had a chance to talk to Willie about my impromptu hang out with Demi- or hang _outs_ , including today- and I no longer feel the need to change that any time soon. I know I can trust him to not say a word about it to anyone else, but I'm starting to like the exclusivity that goes along with only Demi and I knowing what goes on when we're in private. We haven't even had any in-depth or anything worth keeping a secret, but I still think our conversations are special.

I don't have a clue why she likes, and continues to risk, spending time with me by myself. Having Demi Lovato treat me as an equal is just going to have to get used to. As for the pesky little butterflies I get every time she does spend time with me... I'd just have to get used to that as well.

"How are you?" Demi asks, nudging the toe of my foot with hers. "Are you relaxing a little more? How was your first night?" I can tell that her checking up on me would be a regular thing. Then, I remind myself that caring for the well being of her contestants is probably customary. I'm not getting any special attention here.

"I feel better today. I'm bunking with CeCe." I say, smiling faintly at the thought.

And to be honest, I do feel better than I did yesterday, but my nerves are always present. I still feel lost and out of place here, unless I'm singing or hidden behind the facade of wardrobe and make up. So, yeah, I lie a little with my answer, but I don't want to seem incapable of handling a little pressure.

Demi seems convinced enough with my answer to move on to a different subject, "Oh, by the way, I'm sorry I took so long to... " She fumbles over her next word. Instead of continuing verbally she starts to mime something, making both hands into fists and wiggling her thumbs. She watches me expectantly, clearly thinking that I would understand.

After a moment of puzzlement, I realize that she's trying to wordlessly communicate with me: texting. _Our_ texting. She was trying to apologize for taking so long to text me back last night and I understand the reason behind her miming of the word. The cameras aren't present, but that doesn't mean that our voices wouldn't travel. News of us texting would be considered breaking the rules.

At the memory of our late night texts, I feel my face heat up. Mostly because I'm embarrassed that I reached such a low that I had to get her help in the middle of the freaking night.

"That's okay." I say. My voice comes out sounding more defeated than I intended, "You just made me super anxious, no big deal." I try to sound sarcastic and play it off like a joke, even though it's kind of(completely) true.

I expect to make Demi laugh, but just the opposite happens. She sees straight through my attempt at humor, her face full of concern, "I'm sorry... seriously, I didn't mean to keep you up."

"It was worth the wait." I admit, like an idiot, but my brain doesn't get the memo to shut up, "I liked what you sent me back."

"I meant it." She states simply.

I fight back a smile, dropping my gaze to the ground. There she goes again, setting off those pesky butterflies in my stomach.

There's a softer edge in Demi's voice when she speaks next, "You know, it's my job to help you." At that moment she stands up and I hear her stool squeak against the floor which she brings it adjacent to mine. "But you've got to give yourself some credit." She extends one of her hands to me, carefully resting it on top of mine to hold them still. I don't realize until she touches me that I had been uneasily wringing my hands together.

"Jennel," Demi addresses me gently and I look at her. She sits close to me, not like yesterday on the couch close, but close enough that I'm forced to look straight into her deep brown eyes, "I'm so glad that you reached out to me. I'm so proud of you. " She says, her hand squeezing mine. I stay quiet, not wanting to interrupt, "I actually wrote up 6 drafts before I finally thought 1 was good enough to send to you. It's really hard to pick just one of the reasons I believe in you and sum it up in just a few characters, plus I'm..." The regular rhythm of her speech falters and she has hesitate for a couple seconds before she can finish.

She takes a deep breath that accentuates the ligaments of in her neck. And for a few seconds, I get a glimpse of the young and vulnerable 20 year old girl that Demi still is. A girl doing her best to fill in her mentor shoes and navigate the foreign territory of having someone else depending on her. She's out of her element just as much as I am. The brief show of vulnerability melts back under the surface a second later when she smiles, back in control, picking up where she left off, "I'm new to this."

I have a feeling she isn't allowed to disclose her insecurities as a mentor with me, and the fact that she has done so makes me want to give her a hug, but a warning bell in the back of my mind tells me not to. Not here.

I settle instead, for holding her hand. All it takes for it to happen is for me to shift my hand a little so that it's palm up, right against hers.

Demi doesn't acknowledge what I did, although she doesn't move her hand away either.

She's also still talking, and I almost miss what she says, "Any hour of the day, I always want you to be honest with me about how you're doing."

"Okay." I reply. My voice sounds strange to me, raspy. I've been silent for so long, listening and watching her.

"I'm worried about..." There's that moment of vulnerable hesitation again, "... my competitors. So I just want to make sure you're comfortable. It will reflect on your performance this week if you aren't."

"Yeah, I am, I told you I'm really-"

Demi interjects, "Scale of 1 to 10?"

"Probably-" I'm about to say 8 when I'm cut off again. It's like she can predict my intentions to make it seem like I'm doing better than I really am.

"Jennel," From the way she delivers of my name, it's it clear that she doesn't want the truth to be stretched, "Answer honestly." She says.

I look down, focusing on the way our hands are still resting on each others. I can't call it hand holding since all we're doing is laying our hands flat against each others; but this hand-resting thing is still pleasant. More than pleasant.

"Honestly..." I echo, biting the inside of my cheek a little, "5." I say. "I'm still finding it hard to get used to everything. I'm trying my best, but when Jill left, I kind of lost a lot of my confidence... we made it so far together, Jill was so talented I never thought I'd see her go home so early. Why should I make it and not her? I mean, what's my chance in comparison?" As soon as I say it, I regret it. I had momentarily forgotten that Demi had been the one who made the choice not to bring Jillian to the next round, and it had been just as hard for her. I watch Demi's face, and thankfully, she doesn't take my words offensively.

"I think that all this change is putting stress on you and I feel like in order for you to be your best, we need to get you feeling more confident and beautiful. I want the doubt to stop, because you're amazing. I believe you are and a lot of America does too." Demi says, I have a feeling she's building up to revealing something major, "So..." Here it comes, "What I'm getting at here is that I think we should try a few methods to try and bring your confidence up, or you aren't going to enjoy anything."

"Methods?" I ask, not quite following her train of thought.

That Demi Lovato grin appears on her face as she nods her head, "I have a few things up my sleeve, but I want to start with my first," She says, "I think you should get a massage."

Uncertain, I frown slightly. I was up for do anything she thought would help me but, I hadn't expected a massage to be an option. I know massages could get costly, especially if you went to one of the fancy places in Los Angeles that have incense and indoor saunas and use oil-of-something-unpronouncable-but-it-makes-your-skin-awesome.

Demi is watching me intently, awaiting my answer.

I try to smile, but the odds of me being able to afford one aren't high. "Uh, I'll have to check to see how much money I have."

As soon as I say it, Demi shakes her head in protest. "No, no, no. Don't you worry about spending a thing. It's on me. X Factor won't delve out funds for things that can't be provided on the premises, but what they don't know won't hurt them."

 _Demi knows best. Just listen to her._ I try to convince myself this before I officially agree.

Demi must have been able to read the apprehension on my face, her thumb lightly stroking my hand as she asks, "Do you want me to come with you? I'll have to go incognito if you do."

I try to imagine what sort of disguise she would use, and it's an appealing thought. And if I was getting a massage only because she wants me to have one, she's damn well going to be there when it happens. "If you don't mind coming, that would be great." I say, my voice sounds a lot more timid than it had in my head. "What time?"

"How about..." She thinks about it for a moment, tilting her head slightly, "After dinner, around 7?"

 _Crap. That's only a few hours away from now._ "Wha- you mean tonight?" I clarify.

"Yes, tonight." Demi says, a smile playing on her lips, "The sooner the better. Your well being is important."

As she speaks, I result to biting my lip. I know I'll be at the mansion at 7. How am I supposed to go out for a massage and not get noticed? So far, anytime I went out in LA it was never without Willie or someone with me.

Demi gives my hand a quick squeeze, "Hey, what are you thinking?"

I voice my most obvious question, "I don't think tonight will work... how am I going to explain why I'm going out by myself?"

By the way Demi answers me almost immediately, I can tell that she's already considered this, "Just say you're going to a bra store or something. The guys won't want to go, and the girls will understand it's a private thing."

I stare at her in disbelief. Bra shopping at 7 in the evening? I'm almost sure that she has to be kidding, but unfortunately, she looks and sounds completely serious.

I feel a little guilty. With every passing minute it's like we're webbing more and more of a lie.

We look at each other for a moment, one of us waiting, and one of us deciding.

By how things have already gone, I already know that Demi is going to get her way. It was just a matter of time before I agreed. Might as well get to it, "Alright." I sigh, "7 it is."

"Yes!" Demi celebrates, I roll my eyes at her even though her liveliness is adorable to witness. "And don't worry-" Of course, hearing her say that makes me do just the opposite, "-if a massage doesn't loosen you up, I have more ideas."

I eye her suspiciously, "Are those ideas safe?"

She grins back at me, "None of them involve fire, so I think so."

I laugh at this but Demi doesn't, she's too busy retracting her hand from mine, getting up and moving her stool back to it's original place.

I'm bewildered for a second, unable to work out her motive behind fleeing away from me, then I hear Eddie's voice from behind me. "Sorry I took so long, ladies, the printer wouldn't start up." He says.

My bewilderment is replaced by relief. With my back facing the mentor-room entrance, I hadn't heard or seen the door open like Demi had.

I catch Demi's eye and mouth a "Thank you." in her direction. She answers me with a small smile, one that doesn't reach her eyes, she's back in professional mode.

As Eddie takes his place behind the keyboard, he says, "I was just helping Jennel warm up." She lies, convincingly too.

 _More lying._ I know it's necessary, but I can't help but think, _For someone so adamant about honesty, she sure isn't complaining now._

Eddie frowns at Demi's answer, "Oh, I didn't hear anything." He says, not as an accusation, just stating it as a fact.

As calmly as he says it, my thoughts still turn into a long string of: _Oh my god's_ _._

I stare down at the floor, probably the worst think to do when you're trying not to look guilty.

I have no idea how Demi will talk circles around Eddie's observation, but then I remind myself that she's an actress. She'll find a way.

"Uh," Demi begins quietly. I steal a quick glance up at her and I notice a very faint blush creep onto her cheeks. She looks away from Eddie and her eyes train over to me, re-composing herself in no more than a second.

Anyone who didn't know that she was trying to cover something up would think the pause it takes for her to piece an answer(lie) together was a pause to breathe or to remember a word that's just on the tip of her tongue. I know better. "That's because I wasn't showing her vocal exercises..." Her eyes return to Eddie and she smiles, "I was showing her those those facial exercise things that you taught me about last week."

Apparently this makes sense to Eddie, because he nods and smiles like he understands, "Oh, alright. Anyway..." He carefully reaches over his instrument and hands me a piece of paper with black words typed across it, "Those are your lyrics."

"Thanks." I mumble, immediately gluing my eyes to the lyric sheet. Finally, something I can stare at safely.

Eddie continues to instruct me and I keep my eyes down to listen, "I want you to read over the lyrics, and when you're ready, start to sing. We'll run through it without music first, and then once you're comfortable we'll try it with the microphone."

I nod along to what he says, trying to focus, but the word comfortable makes my mind wander. It makes me think of a massage. In particular, a certain 7'oclock massage that's in my near future. It also makes me think a little of home. And it makes me think of two different people's hands resting together, but not hand holding. Just resting. And when the time comes that one of those hands stops resting, it's cold and no longer comfortable, and you want to feel it again.

"Whenever you're ready." Eddie's voice cuts in.

I take a few deep breaths, open my mouth and begin:

 _"You know I'm a Dreamer..."_


	4. Full Circle

The remainder of the mentor session passed quickly.

Eddie had me sing _Home Sweet Home_ at least a dozen times in the allotted hour, making sure I had it memorized. He also praised me a lot, only critiquing the control of my breathing which he said was likely due to being nervous and could be easily remedied. I expected as much- especially when the primary cause of my nerves had been seated in the room the whole time. As silent as a fly on the wall, Demi might as well of had neon signs all around her with how my attention span kept short circuiting, from being focused on Eddie, to wondering what a certain blonde thought about how I was doing.

The few times I had snuck a glance, Demi had been listening with her eyes shut. Not even hint of a frown or a smile to tip me off on what was processing behind her eyelids. She hadn't offered a single comment, just listened and nodded.

Looking back at it now I realize that Demi hadn't told me I had done terribly, so I must have done well. Then again, she hadn't told me if I had done well, so I must have done terribly.

At the end of the lesson, Eddie gives me a piece of paper with a time table on it, informing me of future vocal coaching and rehearsal dates leading up to the live shows. Asides from a, "See you tomorrow," From both Eddie and Demi, I get dismissed without another word. Before I exit the room and head into the hallway, I turn back and manage catch Demi's gaze as I stupidly stammer out a thank you and a goodbye.

Though it's subtle, I'm almost positive that her eyes soften a little behind her stoic mentor mask. And although my mouth is delivering polite farewells, I'm thinking, as well as reminding myself and inwardly celebrating, one thing: _I won't only be seeing you tomorrow; I'll be seeing you tonight._

* * *

Just outside the mentor room I find CeCe Frey, wearing chunky silver and red Sony MDR-X10 headphones(I only know the type from owning an identical pair myself) and waiting on the couch where I had previously, anxiously sat. I smile at her in passing and she raises a slender hand to wave briefly back in response as she softly hums and toe taps to music I can't hear.

We all had our methods to psych ourselves up, and I know better to interrupt hers.

So when I linger in CeCe's presence for a few seconds it's not for conversation, but it's rather that I'm not sure where to go. Having finished my assigned requirements for the day, heading back to the mansion seemed the most obvious. Willie may already be there by now since he had his mentor session ahead of mine. Not wanting to go back into the mentor room and ask for directions from Eddie – but certainly not Demi, since it would be way too hard to keep a straight face and not give myself away from knowing tonight's arrangement– how to get out of here, I decide to do the most commonsense thing and retrace the way I had been lead here from; an elevator near end of the hall to my right.

I begin moving towards it, scuffing my heels against the carpet as I walk, looking around myself and wondering how many times I would walk this path to the mentor room. _What if you're only here until Thursday?_ I ask myself, not to say that I won't work my hardest to make sure I will be here, but I can't assume anything at this point, not when it's America voting next week. Demi, Simon, Britney and LA liked me more than I could have imagined, but had I convinced the most important judge to like me? ... America? _What i_ _f_ _I'm the one that gets booted off first?_

That's when I notice something around me that I hadn't on the way up here, probably from being too wound up to let my surroundings properly sink in. On the walls either side of me are framed pictures of international X Factor winners and runner ups. I recognize a few of the smiling faces: Leona Lewis, Melani Amaro, Cher Lloyd... but most of all, a group shot of One Direction. God, to be framed in a picture among on these walls among the likes of 1D. Not too long ago, they had all been on X Factor and now I, along with many others, own their album. In the future, will someone be able to proudly say that they own _my_ album? 1D were wanted and loved by millions of fans. Would millions want and love me and _my_ music one day? Could I successfully bring rock and roll sung by a female back to radios? Winning X Factor – even placing in the top 3 - could potentially give me all those things and more. I can't even believe that I made it to this point in the competition. Right now, more than ever, winning means so much. That's the ultimate goal, I couldn't afford to think otherwise.

I never had time to question whether being on X Factor was right; I _know_ it is. Fresh out of high school – not even a day after, the actual _day_ I was graduating – I had been called and accepted to be on X Factor. Call me cliche but, I don't believe someone from X Factor HQ on the other line, it had been my destiny calling. There was nothing else I wanted to do other than have a career that revolved around music or dance. I definitely haven't taken any moment of my time with X Factor for granted, I know that I'm in a lucky position compared to what I could be doing back in Massachusetts. For one: thanks to this competition I didn't have to get a post-school job that I hated going to. I was able to do something I loved immediately. And now with the live shows approaching, I was even more driven. I could barely wait to hear a crowd cheer my name and sing with me. I thrived on the idea of touching people's lives with my music. To be being wanted, needed and loved.

And yet, staying and being sent home hung in a precarious balance. It could all go away in an instant. I could be an almost-was-never-quite-got-there. Forgettable.

That 4 syllable word is what hurt the most.

I'm lifted from my abruptly-turned-grim reverie when someone clears their throat somewhere beside me.

I hadn't realized that I had zoned out, stock still and staring at One Direction's picture. I feel my face flood with warmth, and I look up to see a crew member watching from a few meters away. His eyes dart from me to the photo of the boy band. A slow, knowing smile stretches across his lips, and it makes me feel even more embarrassed. I probably look like just another hormonal, teenage fan girl caught red-handed staring dreamily at her one day husband... or husbands. (And while, yes, I had done my share of that, this time it had only been coincidence. I had been thinking of my X Factor future, not how great Mrs. Jennel Styles sounded.)

"One Direction fan, huh?" He asks me.

I nod my head once, moving a stray strand of my hair off of my face, "Yeah..." I respond quietly, keeping my head down and walking briskly past him to complete my way down the hall and to the elevator like I had planned to.

The end of the hall is in the shape of a T and on my left there are two closed, white double doors with the words "Green Room" written in black sharpie on a piece of tape stuck to the top of the door frame. To my right it's the exact same.

I haven't been inside the "Green Room" yet, but I know what they are used for and I have feeling that as the live shows grow closer, competitors will be using the space a lot more.

Consequently after being discovered alone and staring at a photo, the crew member that found me rides the elevator down to the lobby so I am not left unattended wandering around in a daydream. It's becoming quickly apparent that contestants are always under supervision and assistance.

When the elevator doors open after a short descent, I do a quick survey.

The lobby is made up of greys, whites and accents of silver and furnished with several couches arranged in a questionable circle, a vending machine sits directly opposite the elevator and splatter-y modern art mounted on the walls without windows, a detail that I had also missed the first time around.

What I am most grateful to see are familiar faces huddled on one of the couches together: Tate, Arin,Willie, Normani from LYLAS – the rest of the girl group currently nowhere in sight – and Lyric.

Normani is laughing as she chats to someone on her phone, Tate is reading over what looks to be a timetable sheet like the one I have, whilst Arin and Willie look as if they're playing an intense game of rock-paper-scissors that Lyric seems to be the referee of, watching keenly and interjecting at times to correct any cheating or settle any argument about who beat who.

They are all so engrossed in they're personal activities that no one looks up to acknowledge my arrival, even when the elevator dings when the doors open and my vans make dull thuds against the linoleum floor as I draw closer.

"Last round: the tie breaker." Lyric says in an official voice, her words easily carrying over to me, "Gentlemen, if you will."

In unison, Arin and Willie chant: _"Rock... paper... scissors..."_

After Willie's level hand, representing paper, covers Arin's balled up fist, representing rock, the victory is clear and Willie finally glances up and gives me a crooked grin, "Hey, about time." He says, standing up to his full height so I have to look up at him when he speaks next, "Let me guess, you blew them all away?"

I automatically smile at the optimism in his voice, the unquestionable belief he has in me that he knows I often lack in myself, and I make a hammy gesture of flipping my hair as I jokingly reply, "Of course, duh."

Chuckling in amusement at my antics, Willie digs his hands into the front pockets of his khaki shorts, "So we kind of decided while we were waiting–" He nods to Arin, who has engaged Lyric in a double thumb war, "–that we'd all go out for ice cream. You in or out?"

Even the word ice cream had my mouth watering. "Is that even a question?" I nearly scoff.

"If you say no, I demand to know who you are, and what you did to Jennel Garcia."

Without even a beat, I affirm my attendance, "I'm in."

That instant, Arin decides to add into the conversation while his thumbs continues battle, "That's awesome. We need to enjoy the goods LA has to offer before- _yow_!" He yelps suddenly, the cause of his exclamation due to his– now deviously smirking – opponent, who appears to be using her sharp manicured thumbnail to her advantage. Arin makes a disgruntled sound before he continues, "After all, we don't know who will be here next week..." He cringes, and this time it's not from being impaled by Lyric's nail.

There's a brief lull of awkward silence. 6 pairs of eyes showing collective fear. We all know what Arin said is true, but admitting to the fact that a few of us won't be around after next week is a topic usually steered clear of. Each passing day, new friendships were forming. Leaving the competition didn't just mean losing out on a 5 million dollar contract, but friends too. Even Willie, my calm and collected best friend, seems to tense at the thought, a muscle in his jaw flexing and un-flexing. _What if?_ Is the golden question.

Lyric breaks the silence with a click of her tongue, pulling her hands away from Arin and wiping them on her jeans, "Way to be a buzzkill. No one wants to think of elimination night." She says as she adjusts the positioning of her current bedazzled eye-patch.

"Sorry," Arin's voice matches the new smile on his face; small and meek, "My lips are sealed." He promises, following through by mimicking the action of zipping his lips shut and throwing the key over his shoulder.

Beside me, Willie rolls his eyes and claps Arin on the shoulder, "Good to know. Now how about we go get that ice cream while we're still here, then?"

The invite to get ice cream is an open one, but when Lyric decides to wait for the rest of her group, and both Tate and Normani decline on the terms of having other plans, in the end it's only Willie, Arin and I who cram into the backseat of a shuttle.

The original plan had been to ring up a Taxi for ourselves, but a nearby X Factor crew member– or someone in a high enough position of authority to carry a walkie talkie and a clipboard– ruled against it and said it was mandatory we were driven by one of the provided shuttles. While the 3 of us lounged on a couch waiting for a vehicle to be pulled around, Arin quietly admitted to Willie and I that, in his opinion, the demand of having to ride in shuttle was only to be under constant supervision since we were all underage and would impose a huge threat to X Factor's image if we were to do any tempting, illegal spur-in-the-moment-when-in-rome activities like go to a club.

Tate had overheard him and lightly commented, "Don't worry, they make the old ones take the shuttles everywhere too." Which appeared to embarrass Arin, because he doesn't say another word until we're in the shuttle and are asked by the driver where we want to go. Since Willie and I have never been to California before, let alone know any good ice cream spots, because Arin had been here when on X Factor before– although brief – we stare dumbly at him for directions.

Taking the lead, Arin's expression changes into a grin and he's quick to dictate an address while I lean the side of my head against the window next to me and stare out at the parking lot. My eyes wander up to the second floor of the building I had just been in. I try half halfheartedly try to guess which window belongs to the room my mentor session had taken place in. For an instant, my stomach churns nervously and in the back of my mind I panic a little over tonight's massage appointment and having to be alone with Demi again, but with the prospect of midday dessert, mainly I'm just hoping the address Arin provides will lead to something delicious.

* * *

"Oh my god, this is _amazing_." I sigh blissfully through mouthful of chocolate heaven.

Beside me, Willie mumbles incoherently with his own approval while indulging himself in a scoop of vanilla, _"I mow, righ'?"_ He swallows, but a mustache of white resides on his upper lip. I avert my eyes to hide the smirk on my face, not wanting to give it away.

Since Arin insists on paying for our ice creams, Willie and I head towards a table and bar stools that line the parlor wall as we wait for him. "You know," I start as I scoot myself up onto a stool, "An ice cream a day keeps the doctor away... but the dentist happy."

Willie replies with a roll of his eyes, "Yes ma'am. I guess-" He falls short of whatever he had planned to say when my cellphone interrupts, chiming loudly from my pocket and letting the world know that I have an incoming text message.

" _Man_ ," Willie huffs, "You are popular today. I thought I was your only friend?"

I reach over and jab him in the ribs with my elbow, but if anything I have given myself a bruise by doing so.

"It's probably just my mom," I say, hoping the shrug I give is dismissive enough to convince him that my multiple texts within the hour aren't out of the ordinary, but I'm not so sure.

Maybe I'm a better liar than I thought. On the way over here I had been able to cover up receiving 3 new texts from Demi reminding me to take it easy.

I wait until Willie is looking away before I pull out my phone, genuinely curious to see if it's Demi for the fourth time. I wake up the screen and I'm surprised to find that this time it really _is_ my mom. So it doesn't count that I lied to Willie... kind of.

I turn my phone around and offer it to him. "See?" I don't know why, but I feel like I have to prove it's true.

Willie glances in the direction of the device before he shakes his head and waves a hand at it, like he doesn't need or want to see. He doesn't doubt who I say is texting me, and his confidence in me is really nice.

Regardless Willie still murmurs, "Ah, so I really _am_ you're only friend."

"Shut up."

We sit in silence fora little bit, mouths busy with our ice creams, then he speaks, "How'd today go for you?"

I stare at my ice cream as it beginnings to melt in the California heat, giving a soft absentminded kick to the wall with the toe of my shoe. "It was good..." I muse, recounting the whirlwind of activity that had taken place earlier today. "But geez, this morning rushed by so fast I can hardly remember what I did, or said."

Willie nods as he licks his lips, removing his ice cream mustache in the process, "You looked awesome though, who cares what you did. I'm sure it was naturally awesome." He says.

"Thanks." I reply in a mumble, and I'm sure my cheeks have turned pink like they always do after complimented, "Ditto."

"You saw what they put me in?" He asks, and I can't tell if he means it in a negative or positive way, "That thing was tight."

I don't take a moment to process my thoughts before I'm saying, "That's too bad. It looked like it fit really well."

The corners of Willie's mouth twitch, "No, Jennel, I mean tight as in cool." He corrects me, and I can see the smile in his eyes that he's trying to hide to save making me feel embarrassed.

I'm not half as subtle or considerate to my own self, laughing immediately over my mistake, "Oh!" I gasp, "Right, sorry. My brain is fried."

"It's fine, don't worry." He says with a slight grin, because I guess nothing I did was too weird him at this point in our friendship, "So what's the plan for tonight, carhorro?"

I nearly drop my ice cream on the floor, "What?" _What?!_

There was no way he could know my plans for tonight. That I would be seeing the Demi Lovato alone for the third time, well aware that I shouldn't be meeting in secret with her. Well aware that Demi also knew this, but was still putting my better interests ahead of hers.

With how the secrecy and lying was already making me paranoid and jumpy, I make a mental note that, if I can get up the nerve to, I'm going to have to ask her for a different approach to sneaking around. _God, it sounds so much worse when you put it like that._ I lecture myself, _We aren't in some Romeo and Juliet story. Besides, you're dreaming. If the massage is successful, tonight will be the last time she breaks the rules for you. Remember, Demi – Popstar and you –18 year old hopeful. Leagues apart._

Willie chuckles softly, probably interpreting my question as confusion rather than fright. To him, I was still the girl from a few seconds ago mis-understanding the definition to the word "tight".

"I'm just wondering what you wanted to do later?" He clarifies his question.

I'm hoping I keep my face composed enough not to show how my relief, when I answer, "Anything, I don't care." Then I busy my mouth with my ice cream before something else comes out of it.

Even if Willie doesn't know what I'm fretting about, I can tell he knows something is distracting me. When you're best friends with someone, you get in sync with the each other and don't need to audibly say how you feel for them to know. Thankfully he's polite enough not to pry. It isn't uncommon to see a person in a competition on edge, after all.

I watch as he he holds his fist in the air towards me, "Hey," He says, "We're in a pack, remember... we can do this."

I glance down at his fist before I raise my free hand and pound our knuckles together.

* * *

6:10 PM.  
The Mansion.

* * *

I think about my mentor session as I'm loading my plate with 3 slices of cheese pizza. This is my second plate.

My eating habits have definitely gone downhill since I've been here. I'm so busy during the day that I forget to eat, or I'm too full of nerves to want to. And then around dinner time I splurge on whatever's presented to me.

Tonight, a treat supplied courtesy of X Factor's craft services, 30 pizza boxes and several bottles of soda were delivered. In a building full of a majority of teenagers who are stress eating, 30 pizza boxes doesn't go as far as one would think.

I can feel Willie silently watching, and probably judging, me as I return to my spot beside him and delve into one of my pizza slices.

Very slowly, he ventures, "I thought we were going out for dessert after.."

I finish the mouthful I have and look at him quizzically, "Yeah, aren't we still?"

"Yeah, but..." He looks down at the dining table as if the glass surface is suddenly the most interesting thing in the room, "You might want to take it easy."

I wipe the corners of my mouth consciously with the back of my hand and set down the piece of pizza I had started on. Part of me is rubbed the wrong way by his words, even though he didn't say it patronizingly, and I want to get up and get more pizza to pointedly shovel it down in front of him. But I know that would be rude and outrageous and something I would only imagine inside my head and never be bitchy enough put into action. The other, reasonable part of me of me knows that Willie's just looking out for me... and is right; I had to take it easy.

There's a scale in each of the bathrooms here, but I haven't dared step on one yet because a) I have never cared about weight and numbers in the first place. b) I am a young adult, I'm going to have curves and even though my stomach is flat – for now – it's never going to feel hard and well-muscled because I love food.

Back home, I used to exercise frequently by teaching and taking dance lessons, but I haven't danced since I left, and it was only a matter of time before my body realized and pounds would be put on.

Questioning my choices, I look down at the 2 and a half pieces of pizza in front of me; the grease, the bread, the sauce, the cheese, the fat. All of that was going into my body... what I ate had never troubled me before, but now that cameras were going to be on me a lot of the time, the thought made me more than a little self aware.

Normani, who is walking past Willie and I, arm and arm with Camila, saves me from worrying any further, "Says the guy who consumed 2 liters of coke _and_ an entire pizza on his own." She says, eyebrows arched as she looks down at him.

I don't think any of us could really blame him for claiming a whole bottle of Coke to himself. It was rare to see a bottle of coke inside the mansion, and you had to take advantage of the opportunity. Pepsi being X Factor's main sponsor meant the fridge and cupboards are loaded with cans and bottles of the stuff. Beverage wise: it was pepsi, water, or BYO.

Willie says, seeming to to shrink under Normani's intense gaze, and for a man of his height and build, I have to try my best not to crack a smile. "I just don't want things to go to waste." He says.

Normani and Camila exchange a look of disbelief, but it's playfully done, not mean. They're only teasing him. _"Men."_ Camila sighs melodramatically, and then both girls turn, hips swaying in sync as they walk away.

There's a look of concern on Willie's face as if he's committed an actual crime. He's even even rolling his bottom lip between his front teeth. _That must be how I look all the time._ I note to myself.

Watching him, I lift my pizza slice up and take a small nibble of the crust because hunger trumps how I feel about my potentially expanding waistline, "Don't worry." I tell him, "The fat kids can go to the gym to burn this all off next week."

It's not Willie who replies to me; he's beat to it by our platinum blonde comrade, "Count me in." CeCe says, not bothering with the formalities of saying hello, "I _really_ need some gym time." She pulls out a chair to sit in across the table from us and my gaze falls to the piece of celery she has, the end of it wedged into the corner of her mouth. I narrow my eyes skeptically. She wasn't even eating pizza. Why would toned and healthy CeCe need to go to the gym? She takes the green stalk out of her mouth and answers my stare.

"If only you knew," She starts, allusively, as if she's on the verge of telling me something I couldn't imagine in my wildest dreams. "This is just damage control to make up for what I ate earlier. I've put myself on a strict vegetable and fruit diet from eating a shit load of candy and junk food at the photo shoot today." She explains, "I'm gonna have _such_ a food baby tomorrow."

I barely cover up my disbelieving snort with coughing sound that I'm sure CeCe sees through because she stomps on my foot beneath the table. Worth it _._ I just couldn't help myself. CeCe having food baby was _ü_ _ber_ doubtful. Wearing a midriff-showing top at that very moment, I can see by a glance that her stomach looks as amazing as ever.

CeCe pokes her tongue out at me, and I'm trying to think of how to respond to that when Willie disperses our attention on each other by asking CeCe a question, "So, I take it you won't be coming with us to get something sweet after dinner?"

Scrunching up her nose, CeCe shakes her head. "I really shouldn't." She holds up her piece of celery to place emphasis on the fact that she was trying to eat healthily. (Like that would be enough to discourage us.)

"Are you sure?" I press.

Before CeCe has the chance to refuse again, Willie joins in with a grin, "Yeah, are you? Will you look back on this moment and 10 years and say to yourself, man, I wish I could have said yes?"

I continue rom where Willie leaves off, "Will you think to yourself, 'Wow, I wish I could have said yes to those two people I met on X Factor... if only I could remember their names, but I'm so much of a star now that I can't.'"

CeCe's eyes roll, and just by the simple movement I can tell that her self control has been overridden by temptation. "Oh, hell. I'll be ready to go when you are."

She gets to her feet and walks around the table to poke me in the side with her finger. "By the way," She says, "I would never forget you guys." I'm both surprised and touched by her words. However, she snubs out the sweet impression she had given me with what follows, "As long as you remember to bring me my mint and towel when I come off stage. Can't have my personal assistants slacking off."

With that being said, she walks quickly away before Willie or I have a chance to object.

* * *

Despite CeCe's supposed candy binge earlier, the 3 of us end up choosing a candy store downtown for our dessert. There's a self-serve area where you can fill up a plastic bag with assorted candies of your choice. Bins of sugary confection line every wall in the store, making the selection particularly difficult.

We all take turns filling a plastic bag to share, and then equally split the cost for it when the cashier rings it up at a whopping $60.

When the total came up on the cashier's screen and Willie opens his wallet do collaborate with his respectable $20 bill to go along with mine and CeCe's, he sounds physically pained as he says at that same moment, maybe trying to convince himself, "You only live once."

It's about 10 minutes to 7 when, as I finish off a sour gummy worm, I stop walking beside Willie, and clear my throat.

CeCe, Willie and I had been walking aimlessly around an outdoor Hollywood promenade talking and slowly working through our candy loot. So when I stop, they notice immediately and turn to face me.

I take a deep breath the work my way up to speaking. I had to be convincing so neither one of them would insist on tagging along with me. "Um, we passed a store that I like, so I'm going to go back to it. I'll catch up with you later." I say it quickly, thinking that the faster I get it out the less likely I will be to look guilty, or flub over the lie. Demi had suggested saying I come up with a bra-shopping excuse. And I really hope she hadn't been joking, because that's exactly the alibi I'm using.

"Oh," CeCe says, smiling warmly and looking up for anything, I almost hate to tell her she can't come with, "That's cool, you should have said something before. We'll come with you. What store is it?"

I try to smile as naturally as possible, no matter how false it felt to me- how it looked on the outside is what mattered, "I'd actually like to go alone it's a..." I pause, looking to Willie. I don't know why, but I can't bring myself to say the word "bra" in front of him, "... girl shop." There. That's safe enough, right?

CeCe's expression turns into one of understanding, and I know she knows what I mean and won't push me to invite her along. As for Willie, he either doesn't get the gist of what I'm hinting at, or he's not letting what he's thinking show on his face.

When none of us make a move to go anywhere, it's ultimately CeCe who tucks her hand in the crook of his elbow and tugs at it to encourage him to walk with her, "C'mon Willie Jones, you and I must leave our _womanly_ Jennel alone for a little bit."

I grit my teeth. I could have throw something at her for the "womanly" comment, had we been in private I might have done just that, but given the circumstance the only thing I throw at her is a civil smile. I didn't have time to waste over playful bickering anyway. Demi is waiting.

Waiting for _me_.

Willie's feet slowly begin to move after CeCe urges him enough. His eyes linger on me for a moment longer, "O...kay." He lets out slowly, "I guess I'll see you later, Jennel." Then, to CeCe, he asks, "Do y'all know something I don't?"

And just like that, they launch into an debate about whether men or women were harder to understand.

I wait until they're a few yards away before I make my way to the sidewalk away from the trickle of people passing by. I'm leaning against the side of a lamp post amid getting my phone out of my pocket and I bringing up my contacts. It takes only takes a bit of scrolling and 3 taps more to highlight Demi's name and bring up a new text box. The action feels far more natural than it should having only done it once before.

Even though I know Willie and CeCe are well on their way in the opposite direction of me, I double check to make sure no one is peering over my shoulder before I type hastily:

Me: I'm alone. Where do I meet you? – Jennel

I figure I might as well sign my name to identify myself in case she hasn't saved me to her contacts. Even though she had texted me earlier today which means she probably had, in my mind it's too crazy to consider. _Demi Lovato_ having _my_ number? The fact that there is even a sliver of possibility that she does is still hard for me to fathom.

I get a response in a matter of seconds which means Demi must have been using her phone at that very moment I texted her– not waiting by her phone for me to text, because that was highly unlikely...

Demi: At last! I thought you were gonna stand me up... which would be going against what I'm trying to accomplish here since you have to LIE down for a massage

She ends the message with an emoji that had a winking face and it's tongue sticking out, which brings an involuntary smile to my face.

Just as I finish reading, my phone buzzes a second time and it's her again.

Demi: Ok. Your mission should you choose to accept it, is to look for me the address below.

I click on the attachment that goes along with the message and it brings up a google map image of LA with a red balloon highlighting "Luna's Fountain Massages".

Me: Got it.

I'm about to hit send when I remember that because this is supposed to happen in secret and she will be in a disguise of some kind. I add one last question(How will I know what you look like?) and press send.

As I wait for my phone to alert me of her reply, I check the corner of the screen for the time- 6:55PM.

It's 6:57 when my phone chimes again. New Message (1) Demi Lovato.

Demi: You'll know.

The cryptic nature of her reply causes goosebumps to rise on my skin and my stomach feels like it's doing somersaults. _Damn it,_ _b_ _e calm._ I remind myself. _She's just a person, like you. Perhaps a much more talented and attractive than you, but still a person... Most likely. If being that perfect is considered humanly possible._

* * *

Mounted on a panel of wood, "Luna's Fountain Massages" is written in a swirly-font that stretches across 2 roof-to-floor cylindrical pillars that are built in front of two simple glass doors with business hours stuck on them.

For a moment, everything is bathed in a disorientating red color from the retreating taillights of my taxi ride here. A second later, the vehicle is gone and I get my first, real look at the place.

The massage facility is located on a long street with businesses all to do with wellness. Without even turning my head I can easily see a pharmacy, a chiropractor and a acupuncture clinic. I bite the inside of my lip a little. I'm really hoping that if this massage doesn't work out Demi won't send me to the neighboring clinic. No question, I would be willing to keep my nervousness if it meant avoiding a treatment that involved needles.

I shake my head to dismiss the unsettling thought and scrutinize the outside of "Luna's Fountain Massages" for Demi herself.

 _You'll know_ she had said.

With the sun gradually dipping closer to the horizon, it gives off a soft, hazy light that plays tricks on the eyes. Which is probably why I skim over the feminine silhouette half-concealed behind a pillar. When take a few steps closer to the establishment, Demi comes into full view and I have to do a double take. The hooded musician smirks at me when it's clear I've finally caught on.

She certainly picked a great disguise, I would never have imagined Demi would be caught in public wearing such a fashion faux pas.

Looking more like she has been swallowed by a gigantic pillow case, calling the navy blue hoodie and matching sweatpants that Demi wears oversized is understatement. Both articles are clearly gigantic and hang loosely on her small frame. In the seconds alone that I stand in front of her surveying the outfit, Demi has to re-adjust herself multiple times by rolling up the long jacket sleeves and pulling the waist band of her pants to shimmy it further up her tiny hips. She has the the hood pulled up over her head, and I can't see and any wisps of her blonde hair, so I assume it's pulled back. Her make up is toned down compared to this morning, only a hint of red lipstick and winged out eyeliner.

As I take in the overall product I realize that, whether she intended to or not, Demi has proven exceedingly that even when wearing the most unflattering get up, she can pull off wearing _anything._ As she gives me a big, cheery smile, in the back of my mind, I can't help but remember the tune of _'You're never fully dressed without a smile'_. Exhibit A: Demi is evidence that it truly is what's ear-to-ear that counts. If you wear a smile, it doesn't matter what's worn elsewhere. And, in the words of Lydia Martin: ' _Never frown, because some one_ _could be falling in love with your smile'_

Making it clear that this is a casual meet up and not a formal-mentoring one, Demi shuffles closer and gathers me into a one armed hug, her other being used to keep her outfit from malfunctioning. I embrace her around the waist gently.

"Nice to see you." Demi says, her voice coming from the spot above my ear.

"Nice to see you, too." I reply quietly by her shoulder, apparently reduced to an uncreative vocabulary due to her presence. As usual.

"You're right on time." She declares, stepping back so she's in full view again. With a hand tightly holding the drawstrings of her sweatpants, she gestures to herself with her free one, "Wha'dya think?"

"It's great." I admit, "I almost didn't recognize you." _Which was probably the point._ I add silently to myself.

Demi releases a short laugh, "I never thought it would come in handy, to be honest. This was a prop from when I was on, um, Sonny With A Chance. See the name tag?"

Sure enough, just below where her collarbone would be is the name "Sonny M." sewn on in red thread.

As Demi works on creating a knot with the drawstrings of her her sweatpants, her eyes stay on me, "It's good I'm wearing it in secret, otherwise I might accidentally start a trend." She says jokingly, then, "What gave me away?"

I bite down on the end of my tongue gently because I have think about it for a moment. For one; so I won't blurt out something that sounded stupid and too honest, but also because I'm not sure of my answer. What is it that tipped me off? Demi watches me expectantly as her fingers continue to fumble at her waist band, a smile still turning the ends of her mouth delightedly upwards. That's when I know my answer. "Your smile."

Apparently my answer is just what Demi expects, "Story of my life." She sighs, pursing her lips and putting on a somber expression that lasts only a few seconds before that playful smile re-appears as she airily says, "Well, I guess, out of everything, my identifier could be a lot worse than a smile."

I can think of something.

I don't say it, but I notice that her eyes flicker to her wrists like mine do. We're quiet for a moment, but not because of that, because Demi is – still – focused on trying to make a knot and I don't want to distract her. It's far more fascinating than it should be to watch her attempts. I want to offer my assistance, but I'm to timid to offer and I don't want to invade her personal space. I'd only help if she asked me to help. After failing several times in a row, Demi gives up and settles on going back to manually holding her sweatpants in place with one hand.

"Ugh, I knew I should have brought that belt." She hitches up pants one more time before looking up at Luna's. "Okay, come on, let's get you inside before you're late." She says, taking a step towards the building and, had she not just drawn attention to it, I had almost forgotten the purpose of this outing.

I swallow back a lump that rises in my throat, my insides suddenly alive with butterflies. "A-are you sure?"

Demi turned her head slightly to look at me better, both sympathy and a hint of impatience visible in the expression she has.

I feel guilty and I immediately want to take back my previous words.

I know now is not the time to back out after she went to the trouble of arranging this for me so selflessly. Besides, I had agreed to at at least try Demi's methods to get me to relax and I have to follow through. Even if the idea of a massage is a little daunting.

"I suggested a massage," Demi says, almost sternly, "But as you mentor, I could make it an order if you'd prefer."

Shaking my head, I'm sure my face is flushed as I finally get my act together and head towards the entrance. Demi falls in step next to me.

When we reach the doors, there's a brief moment of hesitation, neither one of us sure who's going to open it first. Taking it upon herself, Demi strides in front of me and opens the door for us both.

I thank her as I walk into a brightly lit waiting room. I also note the smell of cinnamon mixed with something floral and the sound of soft flute music. All of it is assaulting to my senses. The room is cream coloured, and asides from a long, rectangular front desk, and several chairs that look to be made of bamboo, there are various expensive looking plants in crystal vases set stop of wicker side tables.

When I get distracted by trying to tell if a nearby large, blooming hibiscus is real or not, Demi walks towards the front counter and murmurs a couple of hushed words to a lady seated behind the counter, who smiles and nods a lot to whatever Demi is telling her. I also notice that she doesn't seem the least bit perturbed by Demi's appearance. Apparently in Los Angeles seeing someone dressed like her is not uncommon.

I glue my eyes back to the purple petals of the hibiscus I'm in front of, listening to the approaching footsteps that belong to Demi as she returns to my side, "Hey, they're ready for you now." She informs me, softly. The atmosphere in this place had a silence quality to it that made talking quietly feel necessary, "The person I was just speaking too is going to show you exactly where to go and help you settle in to make sure you're comfortable before the masseuse comes in. And don't worry, I trust them here, I've been here before. All you need to do is relax..."

My breath catches a little as she briefs me in. I'm incredibly appreciative that Demi is even explaining this to me. In an alternate scenario, she could have just sent me up to the desk to figure it out for myself, she could have even opted out of being here in person at all, but she already knows I am especially out of my element here and was taking every precaution to limit the amount of stress I put upon myself. Not that I ever doubted her, my faith in her as a mentor suddenly soars.

I look up and she has a small close-mouthed smile, but her eyes are expressive and filled with reassurance that does most of the talking for her. Molten chocolate pools of honesty. It's that visage that sells me, convinces me, and I'm nodding my head without any inhibition. I'm ready to dive headfirst into getting this massage over and done with.

Before I do so, I make sure to thank her, mustering up an expression I hope can convey the gratitude I feel.

I feel pressure on my elbow as she rests her hand there soft and brief, but she removes it quickly, and I can't read her eyes now. "I'll see you soon."

* * *

The next hour is arguably the most agonizing hour I have experienced my whole, young life.

One thing is clear to me when it's through, walking stiffly back towards the waiting room: I am not going to be eagerly rushing back for another massage any time soon.

I'm not saying it had been a complete fail, in the beginning it had started out well, the muscles in my back had been kneaded and worked until I felt no tension. But then the process repeated several times and it felt a lot less like a massage and a lot more like the masseuse was treating my like pizza dough.

By the end of it, I feel like I have run a marathon, my body aching in places I didn't think possible from being still for so long and being rubbed raw from the small of my back upwards.

What do I tell the navy blue dressed beauty currently bowed over a magazine just meters away?

I worry the inside of my cheek between my back teeth. Aside from how achey I feel, I don't feel very different.

Demi glances up as soon as I round the front desk, and when she shuts her magazine and sets it aside on the seat next to hers, and I'm surprised to see that she hadn't been reading a gossip magazine.

I don't get to divert the conversation from reviewing of my massage and ask what interested her in reading _"Better Home and Gardens"_ , because she's already, eagerly asking me how things went.

"How was it? Do you think it helped?" She beams at me, "You look great."

"I feel good." I say, my voice sounds sleepy. I'm still in a bit of a daze.

"Just good?" Demi prompts, unsatisfied with the vagueness of my reply.

I open my mouth to elaborate, but the cinnamon in the room suddenly smells sickly, and I have to beeline towards the door and into the fresh air.

It's dark outside, save the illumination given off by a few lights mounted into the sides of the stone pillars in front of me. My eyes take a moment to adjust.

I hear the the door open and close behind me for a second time when Demi follows.

I turn to face her. The angle of the pillar lights add distorting shadows to Demi's facial features so I can only just make out her expression, and by the dismalness I see there – or maybe it's just in response to the discomfort I can no longer hide from showing on mine – I can tell that she knows the massage hadn't gone over as well as we had both hoped it would.

Still, since I haven't given her a clear answer, Demi asks again, "Honestly, how was it?"

I only slightly stretch the truth when I answer with, "It was alright. He was... kind of heavy handed."

Demi rubs the back of her neck with her left hand, the other still used to hitch up her pants, mouth set in disappointment. "Damn it..." She trails off and gives me a once over with her eyes, "He didn't screw up my rockstar did he?"

I smile a little, shaking my head no, but all I really take from her words is the fact that she said _my_ rockstar.

"No, I just feel kind of achey..." I say, bending one of me arms and reaching around to rub my palm between my shoulder blades.

Demi watches, stepping closer so the light better illuminates her, "Why didn't you speak up?"

"I don't know I guess I thought that this is what's it's supposed to feel like. No pain no gain." I say, realizing how dumb it sounds a beat later.

The edges of Demi's lips upturn slightly, "That's sometimes true," She says. "I'm sorry my idea backfired."

I can tell she sincerely means it. "It's okay." I answer, having known the good intent behind Demi wanting me to come here, I don't regret it. At lease she tried. She had said she had other ideas, so one of them was bound to work on me. I knew whatever happened, I didn't have switch that would suddenly remove my nerves, but there had to be something that would lessen them at least.

As I think, I stare at the ground, and in my peripheral I see Demi has her left hand nearly elbow deep in the front pouch-like pocket of her jacket. "I'll call you a taxi."

I don't miss that she says "you" instead of "us", or the way my heart sinks a little. But, what had I expected? Of course we couldn't be spotted together. That would defeat the point of this being – and so far successfully - secret. I'm sure she has her own car parked somewhere close by.

Demi begins to dial, and even though she's only calling a cab company, I still give her some privacy by looking in the other direction. I look up at the sky, searching for stars, but the closest thing I see to a star is the occasional twinkle of an airplane drifting across the back drop of the night.

On all the times I've looked for stars whilst being here, I may have seen 10 stars in the Los Angeles sky- _if_ that. The haze of smog and the reflection of bright city lights drowned out any chance of witnessing the outer space constellations. Back home, from twilight onwards the sky was filled with beautiful stars. That's one thing I hadn't realized how much I loved until it was gone.

When the arrangement for me to picked up is all said and done, Demi hang up and slips her phone away, "They'll be here in about 10 minutes." She informs me.

I look up at her as I lean my back against a pillar and it still feels warm from the heat it absorbed throughout the day.

Demi stands in front of me at about arms length and I alternate between looking at her to looking at the ground, unsure what to say. It's not as if I had nothing _to_ say, I had plenty, but working out how to form my thoughts into words is an especially difficult task to do around Demi.

As usual, Demi takes the reins, "By the way, I don't think I ever said, you sounded _so_ good today. I think we'll stick with Home Sweet Home, if that's okay with you."

The topic of music has me smiling instantaneously, or maybe it's because of the compliment she threw in. Either way, I can't wipe the smile off my face, "I'd love that." I say. "What songs are Willie, CeCe and Paige doing? Or am I not allowed to ask?" I hope it doesn't seem like I'm trying to snoop or talk about the other 3 behind their backs, all I'm trying to do is keep the conversation flowing.

Demi shrugs her shoulders and sucks air through her teeth, "We tried a couple songs, but... nothing has been picked yet. Nothing really jumped out as being _their_ song."

I feel confident knowing that I am the only one with a clear song choice, then I feel a little guilty. It doesn't give me an advantage or anything– so why should I waste energy on feeling pleased for myself?

The sound of Demi's voice breaks into my thoughts, "So, the live shows are getting closer. Are you excited?"

I know it has to be a trick question; of course I'm excited. Everyone in the competition is excited for them. All the auditions and days of boot camp and performing at the judges houses have all been preparations for the live shows; to perform in front of a huge audience like a real star. Granted, we're also nervous and feeling many other intense things, but it's mostly excitement.

"Yeah, I am." I finally say. I wonder what it's like for Demi when she's on tour, singing every night for thousands of adoring fans. "How does it feel to play a concert in front of thousands?"

"You tell me." She says, grinning.

I roll my eyes a little. The largest audience I had performed to was at my Providence audition. But it was all over in under 10 minutes, a concert stretched on for much longer. "My audition was nothing like a concert."

It's Demi's turn to roll her eyes, but then her expression turns thoughtful as she seriously deliberates an answer for me. I watch as her eyes glaze over, lips slowly parting, and when she speaks, she's no longer standing next to me outside a massage center; she's reliving a memory.

"For me, it feels... _electrifying_. The crowd is always on high energy, even before you even step out on stage. They have no idea the effect they can have. It's amazing, sometimes the cheering is so loud that I can even my name being chanted from behind solid brick walls. Usually I stand in the wings, or I'm on a platform below the stage when the lights go down, and there's this short second of pure anticipation. Then it's just... chaos when the first chords of bass and guitar begin enticing anyone who will listen into the first song of the night. The audience go nuts, and they are no longer strangers to you or each other, they are your friends and company for the next hour. You've waited for this moment just as much as they have..."

As Demi continues to explain– eyes remaining glazed over, maybe she's seeing it happen in front of her– the passion in her voice is palpable.

"... More instruments pick up, the drums like a heartbeat, getting stronger and faster each second. The spotlight overhead finally hits me and that's when all the built up anticipation and excitement peaks into an almighty explosion of screams, tears and applause. The ground rumbles and my ears start ringing. And it's that moment at the start of every concert when I feel the most strong, radiant... and _beautiful_ for them. It's the biggest, most amazing rush I've ever felt. No matter where we came from or did before, for a while we're just... being. We're one unit of joy and strength, brought together by the love of music..."

Trailing off, Demi's magnificent depiction finally reaches it's conclusion, and I swear that I have goosebumps from it. Reaching to brush my right hand over me left forearm, I can confirm that the hairs there are indeed standing up on end. I have to take a moment purely to remember how to move the muscles in my face in order to close my awe-opened mouth.

With a new kind of respect, I watch as Demi blinks and adjusts her stance, and just like that she's returned from wherever she disappeared to, meeting my gaze with curious eyes.

Off my facial expression, she smiles softly and cocks her head a little to the side, "What?"

It's funny how Demi could deliver such a beautiful speech, but think nothing out of the ordinary of it. I laugh a little as I think of a way to answer, "That was... amazing, Demi." I say, if amazing even cut it. I could compile a list of other words too: spectacular, brilliant, beautiful, astonishing... the kind of speech that made me wish I had had a pen and paper to record it. As seconds tick by, I'm saddened to find that I'm already forgetting some of the finer details of it.

Demi's shoulders lift and fall as she shrugs off my words, ducking her head bashfully, and grinning wide. "Nah, just honest." It might be the trick of the light, but her cheeks have a pink tinge to them. Seeming to desire the conversation be spun back around so I'm the one talking, she asks, "So what was your first concert?"

 _My first concert._ It comes back to me in flashes. The costume: yellow t-shirt, white vest and ripped black jeans. The date: October 30th, 2009. ( _Wow_ , I think, belatedly realizing it's almost been exactly 3 years since it happened, and boy were things different now.) The act: a then-charcoal haired, 17 year old, belting out songs like Catch Me and Stop The World... Demi Lovato.

"It was you." I'm sure I look sheepish when I tell her this, scuffing the bottom of my shoe on the ground.

The 'O' shape that Demi's lips form is completely priceless, not to mention adorable, "Seriously?" She jauntily demands my confirmation, and she gets in the form of a bashful nod. "No way! That's so cool." She gushes, a full blown grin on her face as she reaches out and gently punches my shoulder in a playful manner.

"We've come full circle... now I get to watch _you_ on stage." She says.

I can't contain my smile. Part of me feels like I'm back, 3 years ago, still among the crowd at Demi's concert dancing and singing my heart out. The idea of meeting her, outrageous, and the idea having her as my mentor on X Factor not even crossing my mind.

If I went back in time and told myself that in 2012 seeing Demi is a day-to-day part of my life, I wouldn't have believed me. But would it come _completely_ full circle? Would I get to perform on stages outside of X Factor?

I can feel my smile disappearing as I ask her, "You really think I could be big enough to do concerts?"

Demi's nodding before I even finish, "I told you yesterday, I believe you can do anything... and I _mean_ it." The way she emphasizes the word 'mean' makes it clear that I better believe it.

I'm starting to, at least.

Sensing my lingering doubt, Demi heaves a theatric sigh, "Jennel, do I need to remind you every night?" _Yes please._

"No." I mutter hastily instead.

The sound of an engine loudly revving up from nearby causes us both to look left to the source of the sound, squinting into the bright lights of a yellow taxi pulling up a few meters away.

"Perfect timing." Demi says in a quiet voice, and I'm not sure if she's being sarcastic or not. Her eyes meet mine when she speak next, beaming brightly. "See you later, rockstar." She winks, and right on queue, she invites me into a snug, goodbye hug that's particularly hard to leave.


	5. Esteem

The cab lets me off back at the promenade where Willie, CeCe and I had parted ways. By the time I set foot on the sidewalk, I have disciplined my blushing cheeks, unsettled stomach and wistful smile.

I focus on trying to find my friends, searching briefly around where I had last seen them. It's only when I get out my phone to text one of them that I discover three awaiting missed calls from Willie, the last attempt from just five minutes ago. Guilt knots in the pit of my stomach as I phone him back. He picks up on the third ring and I lie by saying I'm lost, which is partly, not really, true. Thankfully he and CeCe hadn't headed back to the mansion without me and a few minutes later we we meet outside of the candy store that we had stocked up at earlier.

CeCe dubs me "stupid ass" for taking so long but doesn't comment on the fact that I don't have any shopping bags with me. And Willie doesn't notice the cringe I fail to with withhold when he takes me off guard by squeezing one of my tender shoulders. I count how unsuspicious they are as a good thing and the guilt twisting inside me lessens, momentarily.

We find our way back to the shuttle and most of the ride back to the mansion is spent with me squished between CeCe and Willie as they spontaneously debate the pros and cons of owning a cactus.

"Oh come on, it'd be totally dangerous to own a cactus. They're _huge!_ " CeCe declares with a roll of her eyes. Willie shakes his head in disagreement and presents his rebuttal, "Nah, not all of them. There are little ones that you can have in your house." He says, "But you can have them outside too, especially if it's humid weather, 'cause they don't mind the heat. They're easy care- you don't have to water them much, plus they can go through harsh conditions and still stay standing."

CeCe barely lets him finish before she huffs, apparently unimpressed by the information he's relaying to her. "Oh, please _._ Cool for them being persistent and whatever but what about how sharp they are?" She asks, scrunching up her nose at the thought, "A cactus is an accident waiting to happen."

Her conversational opponent merely shrugs, "Yeah, you might nick yourself on the spikes once in a while if you get too close, but that serves you right for messing with a cactus. They don't need to be interfered with… they're pretty badass plants."

At Willie's last words, CeCe makes a psh sound and mutters disagreeably, "They're pretty _freaky_ looking too."

"Some of them are pretty." Willie insists.

An unconvinced CeCe glances down at me, pointing to the side of her head and making circles with her index finger to imply he was cuckoo. Willie reaches to bat her hand down and she smirks faintly, eyes travelling back to him.

It strikes me that this pointless conversation may be a result of both of them being hyper from previously eaten candy. Maybe in their sugar saturated minds, this is actually a pressing and important matter.

"Okay, cactus man," CeCe says, "I'll tell you what the real freaky thing about them is." She pauses for dramatic effect, mischief alight in her eyes, "Did you know that they can have sex?"

Willie gapes at her, eyes going wide, but I'm almost positive that he's blushing.

I sink down a little lower in my seat and glue my eyes to the shuttle's centre console, the childish portion of me still embarrassed by the wanton use of the word 'sex'.

"It's true." CeCe continues, sporting a grin that justifies her enjoyment over Willie's and my discomfort. "Not, like, real sex obviously. It's through some pollination process or some crap, but then they get kinky and have a bat or a hummingbird's tongue gets all up in there. So it's pretty much just a big org-"

" _Ahem_."

It's not CeCe, Willie or me who creates the sound; but the shuttle driver. His presence had been entirely forgotten up until now. Albeit the throat clearing is subtle enough not to be rude, it had been tactfully and pointedly timed for us to realize how loudly CeCe had been speaking.

CeCe looks guilty, but proves she's not yet discouraged. After adjusting how she sits so she can lean in for better privacy, she speaks quietly, "Anyway, I still think owning a cactus would probably blow…" A short pause follows before she adds, "Definitely blow if there were two of them."

Willie stares at her. "Time for you to get out of the car."

It becomes clear to me that in the hour I was absent from my friends that I had missed a lot… but I'm far too busy laughing to feel left out.

* * *

The time of hour is getting into double digits when the shuttle makes it's arrival at the mansion, but none of us head to bed early.

Along with fellow night owls Arin, Beatrice, Diamond, Paige and Carli from Sister C, we stay up past 11 watching a movie in the mansion's luxurious home theatre. Nearly everyone is bleary eyes by the end credits and filter off to the bunk rooms until it's only me, Arin and CeCe left.

Three of soon becomes two, Arin lasting only a few minutes longer before he leaves his post on top of a pile of couch pillows to trudge out of the room and mumbling something that was probably 'Goodnight'.

CeCe is in her own world, splayed out on the floor texting away on her cellphone with a goofy smile on her face.

She catches me watching and happily reveals that it's her boyfriend, then her phone dings and steals away her attention.

I don't feel tired enough to go to bed yet, so as my mind wanders and I find myself getting out my own phone. Asides from daily texts, I had promised a weekly call to my family which I had almost let slip my mind.

As to not disturb CeCe, I head out of the home theatre and make an immediate left towards two glass doors that lead onto a small balcony. I open one of the doors and step out. The late October air is warm and I can hear sounds of traffic rushing by a few blocks away. The city that never sleeps. Well, I'm fitting right in.

I slide the glass door in place before I dial home in hopes that it's as sleepless over there as it is over here.

Jess picks up on the third ring and from there we talk for a good hour. A fantastic hour, really.

She tells me that things at home have gotten even more boring since I left, that she misses my shitty driving skills, that my dance students placed 2nd in a competition a few days ago, that dad misses having me around to help him in the garage. She even lets slip that mom is trying to bring things together financially so that they can all fly out to Los Angeles for the first live show, but that it's a surprise and I need to pretend I don't know. I agree as calmly as I can, thrilled to share the good news with CeCe and Willie and have my two worlds come together.

At one point Jess puts my brother on the phone but, since it's a school night for him, he's soon kicked off by mom. I can hear her voice counting to three in the background of his hasty goodbye.

I'm pretty sure the 'it's a school night' is just an excuse for for mom to get her hands on the phone. I talk to her for a little bit and she tells me the things I already know: how proud she is and how great I'm doing and all the tear jerking stuff that makes my heart hurt.

Somewhere in between, "'I love you" and "I'll see you soon" my eyes well up enough that a tear spills from the corner of one of my eyes. I rush to wipe it away even though there is no one around to see it. I can tell mom has been silently crying with me by the crack and waver to her voice when she goes back into parental mode and tells me I need to get my butt in bed. It was comforting that mom was still mom, even from miles away.

We bid each other an obligatory long goodnight that goes back and forth ("I miss you so much.", "I miss you more.", "I miss you more than more.", "I miss you to the moon and back.", "I love and miss you as high as this phone bill will be.") for at least 10 minutes.

Following momma's orders, after we finally hang up, I do go to bed- kinda. I get ready for bed, rest my aching excuse for a body on my bunk and planning to call Jess back.

Just as her name rolls up in my contacts, my phone goes off loudly and startles me into dropping it on my chest. It doesn't go off a second time, which meant it was a text message. I hold still and silent for a moment, making sure I haven't woken anyone around me.

I cautiously pick up my phone and I swipe the new message away before I see what it is, going into my phone's profiles and selecting 'silent' so I won't be caught off guard again. Then I bring up my inbox, checking the time when it takes a moment to load. It's 12:20 in the morning, which means the sender to this message is either spam or one of my family members. Well, there is another person who could be awake at this hour, but I couldn't let myself expect texts from her.

But it _is_ her.

I hold still and quiet for a moment, double checking to make _sure_ that no one around me is awake. When I don't hear any sounds asides from the rhythm of deep breathing, I read on.

Demi: So, I was joking about having to remind you every night about how great you are… but thought about it and I'm going to after all, because if the roles were reversed that's what I would have wanted. Jennel, You can do absolutely anything… & I know you won't be able to reply to this because I'm a mentor to responsible young adults that are asleep right now. Goodnight.

I stare at the message, reading it through several times until it really sinks in. An. Inspiring. Message. Every. Freaking. Night. From. Demi. Lovato… _What?!_

When I'm done staring and grinning like an idiot at my phone, I'm definitely too shocked and amazed and thrilled to even think about sleep, so I stick with my original plan and bring my contacts back up and phone Jess back. We continue chatting in whispers, burning through the subjects that we hadn't covered just a few minutes ago. I don't tell Jess that talking to her is making me miss home even more, because that's weak on my part. I don't tell her about how Demi Lovato is quickly climbing higher on the list of my favourite people for being the most supportive and kindhearted mentor ever, because that's obvious. And I certainly don't tell her that Demi was breaking rules for me and technically I am too, because, well, she doesn't need to know that.

* * *

The next morning I wake up with my phone uncomfortably digging into my cheek. I consider ignoring it, but even beneath my closed eyelids I can tell it's fairly light out which means my alarm will be going off and I'd be getting up soon anyway.

I sit up groggily. Putting two and two together, I know that I must have accidentally dozed off while talking with my sister the night before. I can't remember the last thing I said before doing so, I can only hope it wasn't something embarrassing that she could make fun of me for later on.

After trying to soothe my slightly sore cheek by rubbing it a little, I pick up my phone to cancel the pre-set alarm. Figures, the day I remember to set an alarm that I'd wake up before the damn thing.

Alarm or not, 7:35 still really bites when you're on only a few hours sleep. I make a mental note to stop staying up so late, a note that would probably be conveniently forgotten later on.

I stretch my legs out in front of me and flinch when my feet brush against the cold metal bed frame.

To delay having to leave the sanctuary of my bed, I look around to assess the bunks around me. Most of them are already empty. Simon and Britney had earlier call times than LA Reid and Demi's, which meant LYLAS, Sister C and the teens are already up and well into their day.

I look over to the bunk beside me that Paige still occupies. She has the covers up so high that I can barely see the crown of her shaven head. In contrast, I'm on top of my covers wearing barely-there leopard print pyjama shorts and a black camisole. Instead of letting myself feel out of place, I remind myself the perks of this: _At least you don't have to make your bed._

When I'm satisfied that the my legs feel as ache free as they're going to get, I suppress a groan as I stretch my arms over my head as far as they'll go before hitting the underside of the top bunk. I find out pretty quickly that yesterday's stiffness is still present in my back and shoulders, making it feel like my joints are surrounded by wet sand. But it's beginning to lessen a little. I nibble at my bottom lip, barely even 5 minutes of being up and I'm at it again, when I find myself grabbing my phone.

What am I planning to do? Be an idiot and text my mentor. I don't even know if Demi _wants_ a damn update on how I'm feeling, and I certainly don't want to be the one in her age category that comes across as needy and clingy for the most support. What if she's busy? Or what if she wants me to keep quiet about yesterday's appointment altogether? Texts could be read by anyone; and I don't want Demi in trouble if I send her a text regarding what happened last night right as someone's looking over her shoulder. I could get her fired. _No, it wouldn't be Demi._ I tell myself in chagrin, _Demi is too much of an asset._ _You_ _'d be the one sent away._

I quickly erase the message I had been in the midst of making.

I can't erase the thought of it though, and now my mind is on Demi and my body is responding (annoyingly) accordingly. Butterflies stir in my stomach and the corners of my lips are turning upwards from a force out of my control. I'm still uncertain whether to think of Demi is my friend or just a really helpful mentor. I know which one I'd rather believe…

The bed above me creaks as CeCe shifts around, and I'm brought to reality and the fact that I've been awake for several minutes just sitting here not doing anything productive.

 _Get it together, Jennel._ I tell myself as roll out of bed and onto my knees, a little too carelessly, the hardwood floor making my knee caps sting dully. But it's a good pain; one that helps wake me up. I slide my suitcase out and begin rummaging through my things. Surprisingly, it doesn't take long to find what I'm looking for. A purple tee and a set of overall's that stop mid-thigh. I was going for casual, but up for anything.

Collecting up my outfit along with my toiletry bag, towel and phone, I take advantage of the momentarily empty bathroom. CeCe is just starting to climb down our bunk's ladder when I glance back into the bunk room before I close the bathroom door and flick the lights on with my elbow.

The bathroom is equipped with multiple mirrors and light fixtures. There is no hiding. So when I look in the mirror above the sink, I grimace a little at the sight. My right cheek is red and still bears the grooves of my phone, I have a smudgy panda eyes and my skin looks cakey with day-old foundation from forgetting to wash yesterday's make up off.

I put my things down on the counter by the sink and unzip my toiletry bag. Underneath tubes of eyeliner and mascara, a tooth brush, a hair brush and random mismatching jewellery I find a hair elastic and put my hair into a loose braid at the back of my head. I turn on the faucet and lean over the sink to splash cold water onto my face. The chill makes me grit my teeth a little, but I don't bother to change the temperature. This is a shared bathroom, and if I took more time than I needed there was the possibility of mutiny.

I turn off the water and pat my face dry with my towel when I'm done and then I attempt to apply some eyeliner. It takes me several attempts to get both eyes even close to matching, but I'm not in the mood to fuss over myself. Plus I have a feeling my make up would be redone anyway since it's a filming day.

I change out of my Pj's and give my hair a quick brush, pleased to see that it's fighting against staying straight and had started curling at the ends while I slept.

Once my appearance is acceptable by my standards, I pack away my things while watching the mirrored reflection of the flat screen TV mounted on the bathroom wall above the jacuzzi-style bathtub behind me. It's playing some morning talk show I don't recognize.

I have my phone resting next to the sink. A safety hazard, perhaps. And I'm not expectant for anything, but it sure makes my skin tingle when it buzzes and I read the words backlighted on the screen.

New Message (1) Demi Lovato. 7:44am

Biting my lip, I open it and skim over the short text that awaits me.

Demi: Good morning! I have a new idea. I'll let you know when I see youuu :)

My mind whirs with possible replies. This new idea, I assumed, would be an attempt at redeeming yesterday's failed first idea. I'm curious to know, and waiting seems like a difficult task, so I text back: 'I can't know now?'

I linger in the bathroom, safe from prying eyes. I'm thankful had had the sense to put my phone on silent, so at least Demi's texts were slightly more subtle now.

 _Bzzz._ My phone vibrates in my hand, tickling my palm. I bring the new message up and find myself smiling when I read her words, imagining her saying them aloud with that enticing grin of hers.

Demi: Sorry I'm not spilling unless you're in front of me… Unless you know something I don't. Should I be looking out the window?

Me: I'm not outside your place.. maybe

I throw in the maybe part as a joke, and I question doing so as soon as I hit send. Somehow, having Demi in text form to interact with instead of face-to-face makes it almost too easy to relax and joke. I wish I could actually work up the nerve to _talk_ to her like this instead of having my brain take a holiday whenever she was present.

I'm relieved when my phone springs to life again, and I bring up the new reply.

Demi: hahaha if you were you'd be a little off. I'm at the studio getting my hair did

I write back.

Me: Thanks for letting me know

Her reply comes a few seconds later.

Demi: or maybe I'm outside YOUR window :P

Me: I'm in the bathroom. No windows

There's a five minute delay before my phone buzzes again.

Demi: Gotta go, game over

My heart sinks a little. I had let myself get into the back and forth rhythm of our exchange of jokes. I hadn't thought it would be so short lived, but of course she has other plans. This is the one and only superstar Demi Lovato, and compared to the great expanse of tasks she has to do on a day to day basis, I'm like fly on the windshield of her life. Maybe even smaller.

Still, despite knowing so, I try to coax her back into it, credit to my easier-to-talk-to-over-text mentality.

Me: Sounds like a forfeit

Three minutes later (not that I'm counting) -

Demi: No way! I don't give up that easy ;) probs why I'm STILL trying to think of ways to help you believe in your amazingness

Me: What's your new idea?

 _You might as well try your luck to see if you can get her to slip up and tell you._

Her response comes after half a minute, and I open the message eagerly. My eyes go wide over what she has written.

Demi: We get the audience to actually strip down naked when you perform

 _?!_

Me: ?!

Demi: Kidding! Don't worry. Have patience grasshopper. I have to tell you in person for you to understand. See you later J.❤

I only let myself revel over the nickname and the goodbye heart for a moment, then I pick up my things and leave the bathroom to consult the timetable I received from Eddie yesterday to find out when exactly when I would be hearing about Demi's new idea. I have the timetable stashed underneath my pillow for safe keeping alongside my iPod. I unfold the piece of paper and under a column marked 25th it reads:

Time: 11:30am  
Location: CBS

I mentally do the math to calculate the hours before I'll see her. Just over 3.

In a way that's become familiar now, my stomach churns when I realize in just over 3 hours hours I will be on my way to my second mentor session with Demi. Part of me deflates a little, since I know that this time there will be cameras and crew all over and we wouldn't be able to speak so liberally. And if Demi was going to "let me know when I see you" as she had put it in her texts, she must have an ulterior way.

To make the time pass quicker, I decide to busy myself. I cram my stuff into my suitcase and let the rumbling in my stomach lead me to the kitchen where I'm surprised to see CeCe's by the stove plating a slice of french toast, still in her red and black plaid pyjamas. Tate stands beside her and seems to be giving her pointers as he jostles the handle of separate a pan of scrambled eggs.

I hesitate before I walk any further to get myself some food, looking for the person missing from this picture; Willie. He's not at the dining table amongst the other adults and since CeCe, Tate and I are the only contestants in the kitchen I come to the conclusion that Willie must still be getting up.

With him not in attendance yet, I gravitate towards CeCe. We share our good mornings and I help myself to two slices of bread from the loaf she has open next to her. Tate is a head taller than CeCe, and I can easily see him looking over at me, corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. He asks if I want any of the eggs he's made and it smells too good to decline, so he loads my plate with the stuff and I go to stick my pieces of bread into the toaster.

I find butter in the fridge and after my toast pops up I spread a layer onto both slices and go sit next to CeCe on a bar stool. Along with her french toast, she also has a plate of Tate's scrambled eggs, which she's already into despite them being fresh out of the pan. "I'm _so_ glad we have a parent living here that knows how to cook this good." She praises around a mouthful.

I shovel some eggs onto my toast and take a tentative first bite, that turns out to be delicious, and am soon gorging myself along with CeCe. I'm on my second piece of toast when Drew walks in wearing nothing more than a pair of red swim trunks and a blue backpack.

Drew shrugs his backpack off and places it on the floor and nods to me, then smiles at CeCe, "Morning, girls." He says, going over to the counter and reaching up to open the cupboard above the microwave. The muscles on his bare back ripple impressively as he extends an arm up to grab a plastic blender jug.

I observe him for a moment, because the work he has put into his physique is definitely credible. No one looks the way he does without putting out effort and caring about their looks. And by the way he lingers, flexed in front of us, I have a feeling he knows it, too.

CeCe-with-a-boyfriend is sure attentive enough. I don't know what she's thinking, even though there's a glint in her eyes that gives me a pretty strong idea, but I know that I'm wishing that, especially in this heat, I could walk around with my shirt off like Drew and not have it questioned.

This isn't the first time I've pondered over this fact; the double standards of walking around shirtless that is. _("You and your feminism,"Andrea would say to me with a shake of her head on more than one of the Summer afternoons we sat poolside people-watching, in particular my crush at the time, Eric, "Just take a moment to appreciate Eric's pecs, then you can get yours out if you feel so strongly about the fact you having to wear a bikini top and he doesn't.")_

I return my attention to my food just as Drew bends down to open a cupboard at his waist to pull out a blender, setting the appliance on the counter.

I feel CeCe nudging her elbow into my side encouraging me to join her in ogling. I turn to roll my eyes at her, mouthing the word " _Stop_."

A slight smirk appears on her lips that irks me for some reason. "Don't be an ass." I say.

CeCe shrugs off my comment before quietly murmuring, "Gotta admit, he has a good one though."

Just for that, I reach over to pick up the small square of french toast CeCe has left on her plate and pop it into my mouth.

"Hey!"

I lick my fingers, "Mine now."

* * *

In the time it takes for me to finish my food, CeCe to go and change out of her PJ's and Drew to make a smoothie and sit beside me to noisily drink it with an arm slung lazily over the back of my chair - that I'm refusing to give him the satisfaction of leaning into -, Willie still hasn't appeared.

So I slip out of my seat to go find him. The door to the guys' bunk room is wide open, and the inside of it looks identical to the girls room, asides from the heavy smell of deodorant and various clothing items strewn across the floor.

And crouched over a suitcase the middle of the room with a red bandana tied around his head is my best friend.

"Good morning." I say. Willie looks up as I step into the room and instead of greeting me or calling me chachorro like usual, he shakes his head, "Rule breaker." He says with a grin.

I frown in confusion. "What?"

Willie stands and walks over to me, pointing to the laminate on the wall beside me just inside the doorway, Simon Cowell's rule sheet. One rule stands out in particular: No intermingling in bedrooms.

I roll my eyes, but don't take another step because Simon's rules carry a certain authority to them that I feel obliged to obey. And the thought of breaking a rule and getting in trouble with him is quite frightening. _Not that it stops you and Demi._ I try to ignore the thought and mumble to Willie, "He's not here."

"Or is he?" A voice queries from beside my left ear. _Shit._ I veer instinctively in the opposite direction of the voice, nearly losing my balance in the process. I wheel around to the sound of laughter and it's not Simon in the doorway, but Wes. "Dude, be cool. It's just me." He says.

I smile tightly in response, staying silent because less focused on speech than I am on settling the thrum of my erratic heartbeat.

He continues to chortle to himself as he walks to a bunk, then he goes quiet and turns to me with a serious expression that fails to mask the rascality beneath it. I notice the way his fingers are starting to curve beneath the hem of his tank top, "How do you feel about partial male nudity?" He asks.

"And I think that's our queue to go." Willie says to me. He places a hand at the small of my back to encourage me forawrds until we're both in the hall, then he drops it to close the door behind us.

There's a lapse of silence, and I watch him as he reaches into the breast pocket of his white shirt and pulls out his glasses to put them on.

I smile at him, glad to finally be in his company, "You hungry?" I ask.

"Starving."

* * *

A bacon and egg sandwich later, courtesy of an all too willing Tate, Willie and I are talking about our upcoming mentor sessions. "So, what time is yours at?" He asks after telling me his isn't until after lunch.

I pretend to think about it, like I don't have the time until I see Demi memorized. "Uh, 11:30, I think."

"It's getting close to crunch time then, huh?" He says.

"Mhm." I hum in a response, slipping my phone out of a pocket in my overalls to check the time. 9 o'clock exactly. I return it to my pocket, watching as Willie spins his bar stool around in a full circle before his eyes land on me again.

"Where's CeCe at?" He asked curiously.

I ponder for a moment, not quite sure. The last I saw of her was the back of her blonde head as she sashayed down the hall. "I think she's getting ready." I say.

Willie raises both eyebrows, "Still?"

"Yeah, well, you took ages yourself." I remind him.

Willie's expression suddenly turns grave, "You don't want to know the reason why. All I'm saying is that the guys' room was a pretty dark place this morning."

I laugh at this and he cracks a grin, picking up his plate and walking over to the sink to wash by hand it despite there being a fully functioning dishwasher barely a meter to his right.

I prop my elbow up on the counter and rest my chin on my hand as I wait for him to finish. He's just started to run the water when I hear a beeping sound from downstairs, a signal that the front door has been opened. Laughter and overlapping voices carry up the stairs, growing louder and louder until Bea, Carly and LYLAS come into view, returned from their mentor sessions.

All of the girls of LYLAS are particularly talkative, staying in a tight knit group as they walk together in the direction of the bunk rooms. Camila changes course just before heading into the room with the girls, looping back to the kitchen to open up the fridge. She pulls out the box of last night's left over pizza and carries it close to her as she goes to catch up with her four group mates.

From the dining table, Tate notices and calls out to her, "That won't hold you for long… you want some eggs?"

Suppressing a smile, my attention shifts to the two teens that are still hovering at the top of the stairs talking to each other. Bea must be making a joke, because Carly lets out a melodic laugh that's almost lost beneath the loud and animated conversation the adults are having around the dining table. But I hear it, and wonder how the hell a girl her age can sound so pretty.

The two girls hug tightly and then Carly slips out of the sliding doors that lead off the dining room and onto the outside patio.

Rather than following, Beatrice comes over and sits next to me. She rests her forearms on the surface of the counter and slumps towards them, playing with a yellow wristband she's wearing and heaving a sigh that sounds much too heavy and troubled for a 13 year old to be using.

"What's up?" I ask her.

She perks up when she's spoken to, glancing up at me then down the hall until her eyes finally settling back on the bracelet she's fiddling with, "Oh, well, Simon wants LYLAS to change their group name so they're trying to think of one and Carls is bummed because-"

"No." I interject, because this girl is as selfless as CeCe is blonde; completely, "What's up with _you_?"

Bea seems to appreciate my interest, smiling a small smile, but I don't miss the soft sigh that follows, "It's just tough."

"I know." I agree. It's true.

I watch as Bea blinks, eyes closed a moment longer than what would pass as normal. It's obvious that she's tired but unfortunately for her, and all of us still walking around in a daze, the week had just started. "Did you think things would happen this fast?" She asks.

I shake my head, looking over at Willie as he pulls out a dishcloth from beneath the sink. It definitely is surreal how fast things have been going. Thinking back to the nerve wracking weeks; things back then had seemed to go by painstakingly slow. Waiting for that far too powerful a three-letter-word that would concrete our futures on The X Factor. Those torturous deliberate pauses before your "yes" seemed to pass by in slow motion when they had happened; now those moments are almost blurry. Now that things are really getting underway with more things to remember and practice and experience, an hour passed before you knew it. A mentor session is suddenly just around the corner after what seems like no time at all since the last one. An elimination that used to be weeks off is now only a couple days away. And sure, the televised interviews and rehearsals coming up on our timetables look daunting now, but I have a feeling that they will be over and done with before I know it and then I'll be standing up on stage singing my song, hoping to prove to the nation I don't just deserve a three-letter-word, but an eleven-digit phone call.

So I honestly mean it when I say, "No."

Not to underestimate how enthralling all of this is too, a breath later I add, "I'm not gonna lie though, I really don't want it to go away."

Bea's eyes go wide as I speak, as if horrified at the thought of things changing, "Neither do I!" She exclaims, then the moment of liveliness fades, "It's just… a lot of work."

I reach out to cover one of her hands with mine, trying to reassure her. "We're all going through it with you. Don't forget that you aren't alone." I give her hand a little squeeze before letting go. It was saddening to see Bea so deflated and drained. Strip away her bubbly go-getter personality and she was still just a young girl trying her darnedest to cope under pressure. The least she deserves is to know that there's support around. "You can talk to me whenever you want, okay?" I offer.

Bea's face lights up and she straightens her posture until my eyes are level with hers. "Thank you." She says. I can tell she means it.

Willie comes over just as Bea is starting to shimmy herself off her stool, her high tops suspended in the air before she lands on the ground. "I'm going to go see if Camila will let me have a piece of that pizza." She says.

"Okay." I reply, smiling softly at her. She already seems to have lifted spirits. I'm hoping that I helped get her into that state of mind.

Bea holds up a fist which Willie and I each bump in turn. "See ya." She says.

Willie wishes her good luck, whether he means it in regard to Bea getting a piece of pizza from Camila or in general I'm not sure. Then he tells me he want to go explore the video game consoles in the living room, and I agree to tag along.

I'm walk with him to the staircase whenI hear Camila shouting from somewhere down the hall, "I love you, don't forget me!"

I'm 99% positive that the decree is for the pizza slice Bea must be taking.

"You'll always have a home in my stomach!"

100% positive.

* * *

The sight of Tate and Willie sitting side by side on black pouffes in front of the living room TV playing Tekken is more amusing than it should be.

Surprisingly, Tate seems to be winning.

I lounge on the couch that's behind them to watch and after a couple minutes, I'm pretty sure I've manage to work out what the goal of the game is; to knock out your opponent.

When I realize this, I hope there is no subtext behind it to do with the competition.

A while later, seeing a grown man playing video games against a seventeen year old atop tiny seats they both barely fit on loses it's novelty, and it becomes boring to watch Tate win round after round, and Willie call for a rematch every time.

Around round number eleven or so, CeCe finally graces us with her presence, wearing black and grey tones and a shimmery necklace that catches the light streaming through the window. Upon seeing my inactivity on the couch, she walks over and challenges me to the next round. I say I'm up for it, even if I have never played before. I have watched the guys play enough to know what buttons on the controller to avoid.

CeCe sits beside me and we wait for Willie and Tate finish up. After Tate leaves Willie in the dust, yet again, they both stand up and CeCe takes Willie's seat and I sit down on Tate's.

Numbers count down from three on the screen until it hits zero and the game commences. "May the best woman win." CeCe says.

It turns out, playing Tekken is much harder than it looks. In the beginning both of us are fumbling to keep our characters standing upright let alone throw a punch. With help of Willie giving us suggestions from the couch, I manage to get a grasp on the game faster than she does, and the closer I get to winning the more CeCe thinks shouting commands (and yelling in general) at the TV will help her out.

In the end, I turn out to be the best woman.

"Damn it!" CeCe yawps when _"You lose!"_ pops up on her side of the screen, and _"You win!" pops_ up on mine.

Willie laughs as I raise my left hand to my right shoulder and facetiously go through the motion of brushing dirt off my shoulder. "You know how it is." I say to CeCe, trying to keep a straight face and act vaguely macho.

CeCe, too, bursts out laughing at my actions. "You're so lame, oh my god." She says as she stands and up and lets Willie take her controller. "Note to self," She murmurs to her self, "Never challenge Jennelly to a video game… because she's a total cheat."

I smile broadly at her. Honestly, I'm actually pretty impressed with myself for conquering a game I hardly knew anything about. "I think they call what your going through, the in denial stage." I tease, "Don't worry, acceptance will come to you soon."

As the last words leave my mouth, Vino saunters into the room, his eyes searching the the various faces in the living room, then fixing on me. "Jennel? You're needed downstairs. It's quarter after 11 and there's a shuttle waiting for you."

As soon as he says it, my post-video game celebrations fizzle out, all of a sudden greatly unimportant compared to the thought of my impending 11:30 session with Demi.

I pass my controller back off to Tate and rush to the nearest bathroom to make sure I look okay before I go downstairs. I'm standing in front of the mirror tucking and untucking a loose strand of hair around my ear, trying to decide what looks better, when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

This time, I'm not surprised to discover that it's a message from Demi. I open it.

Demi: Meet me after the mentor session and I'll tell you my Plan B idea. Say you have to go to the bathroom, and I'll meet you there. I don't want cameras around. See you soon.

It's short, brief and to the point, but I have a feeling I'll be thinking about it for the next hour.

* * *

Once I arrive at CBS studios, a standby crew member leads me up and into the green room on the second floor. My first impression of the room is how large it is. There's a small hair and make up prep area set up in the corner up against a wall completely lined with drama boxes, mic stands, amps, speakers and a bunch of black chests varying in size, all marked with the word 'storage x'. The rest of the expanse is left pretty open and unfurnished asides from a collection of variously sized and patterned couches. Unlike the pristine white mansion couches, the ones in the green room have a homey feel to them as if they had been picked up at a garage sale or a salvation army. I liked the imperfection. They had a past and history to them.

I know that I'm not here for leisure time, though. In fact I barely get to to glance around before I'm urged towards the hair and make up area by a member on the prep team. I go through hair and make up at such speed that I'm impressed that I don't have singe marks from how quickly my hair gets un-braided and re-straightened, because apparently my hair being wavy or braided isn't how they want me to look anymore.

I'm a little relieved to see that Susan is one of the make up artists present and due to the slight familiarity, I'm able to relax a little with when she applies a powdery foundation to my face so my skin won't shine beneath the studio lights and then lightly dab my lips with something glossy and strawberry flavored.

After I'm given the okay to leave and go to the mentor room for blocking, I step out of the green room to be met by Eddie, wearing a bright orange beanie. "Hey," He flashes me a lopsided smile, "How are you?" He asks me conversationally as we walk to the mentor room together. "Fine." I reply, giving him a slight smile to make up for my short answer. The more nervous I became, the more my vocabulary shrinks as any insightful multi-syllable words fleet themselves out of my mind.

Eddie and I are nearing the doorway of the mentor room, but he hesitates outside it to speak to me. Not in any rush to rush into having cameras aimed at me, recording my every move; I'm all ears. "I have god news about your song choice. Demi talked to me about how much you wanted Home Sweet Home, and I ran it by the producers and they think it's appropriate. So we're definitely going to stick with it." He says, followed by an enthusiastic nod, "Actually, Demi put it perfectly, and I quote, 'It suits her voice so well, it would be a crime if she didn't sing it.' Unquote."

If he tells me this to get a big, genuine smile on my face, he succeeds.

* * *

The atmosphere inside the mentor room is definitely different than how it had felt yesterday without the two large cameras, boom mics, light stands and crew members.

One of the cameras is positioned behind Demi's chair to aim at the empty stool where I'd soon be sitting, and the second camera is behind my stool aimed to Demi's stool that she currently isn't in either.

A few alterations had been made to the room in general; the potted plants rearranged around where the cameras were as makeshift camouflage and Eddie's keyboard repositioned to sit directly behind Demi's chair.

Eddie goes to take his post behind his keyboard and I head over to the stool I had sat in yesterday and a cameraman currently behind the camera pointed at me turns a few dials on the equipment and then asks me to go to the mic stand.

I do as I'm told, rising up and moving to stand in front of the mic stand. I'm given another instruction to step back and a different crew member comes over with a roll of tape, ripping off a piece and sticking it on the floor where my feet had previously been, telling me it's my mark and in order for me to be in frame I have to be standing on it.

I'm asked to go back to my seat and then a guy with a shirt boasting the word 'producer' in large white letters briefs me on a few do's and don't's. Don't: make eye contact with the cameras while they're rolling. Don't: change position until I hear 'that's a wrap'. Don't: repeat anything that Demi says but, do: answer what Demi says. Do: look like I'm interested in what Demi has to tell me. Do: speak up if I have something to say. Do: be aware that everything said or did during filming may not be televised at all due to time restrictions.

The longer I sit there, the more I can feel myself getting overwhelmed with all that's going on. All the attention and directions and restrictions. At this point, I'm almost to afraid to breathe in case that might be a don't. I can feel sweat forming on the back of my neck as I internally stress over everything, and I'm sure that cameras will be able to detect it. By the end of this, I would definitely need Demi's plan B.

 _Or, god, maybe just Demi._

* * *

Demi is brought into the room after everything is prepared, and I'm pleased that many of the loitering crew members leave the room for the actual filming. Including Eddie, Demi and me, there are only seven people in the room when action is called.

As expected, Demi is in mentor mode when she takes her seat in front of mine. I get a prepared, professional smile and a prepared, professional hello from and without the bat of an eye she starts to dictate to me the things I need to work on. It's delivered emotionlessly, not even a smile in her eyes.

It messes with my head a little because the Demi in front of me now and the cheerful Demi that I received texts from, and who passionately and marvelously explained her concert experience to me only yesterday, are polar opposites. I internally remind myself that the the woman in front of me isn't the real Demi, just a part of her. Everyone puts up a front when in front of a camera. That's all this is.

I don't know why I have to work so hard to convince myself of this and I find myself fall back into my mental mantra of _you can do absolutely anything's._

The cameras record about 10 minutes of our pretty much one sided conversation that mostly includes Demi comparing me to CeCe and Paige and that I need to step it up or it's not going to work. Despite my best efforts to keep mentor Demi separated from the Demi I knew off camera, it still stings a little to hear her compare me to the other girls so out rightly. Is this her way of saying I'm not good enough? That me being Jennel isn't working out for her? How can I possibly take _that_ criticism constructively?

I take a deep breath, reassuring my dwindling self worth by reminding myself that Demi's saying all of this solely for the benefit of the viewers at home. She has to make me look like I needed more improvement than I do so I would be rooted for more. More votes, more chances of staying in the competition. In an abstract way, she's helping me out.

I do my best to sit still, nod and look attentive even when it's difficult to not to let my eyes shy away from those blank brown eyes. I almost want to purposelessly look into the camera lens not-so-hidden in the potted plants behind her, just so this can all be redone with Demi being herself, and me not being so freaked out. Only, that would mean a more lengthy day of filming, and I don't want this to take any longer than it needs to. Especially since the sooner the cameras stop rolling, the sooner Demi is going to drop her mentor facade and reveal her Plan B idea to me.

* * *

After running through Home Sweet Home a few times, someone finally announceswe're wrapped and I'm officially free to leave. I don't linger a millisecond longer than I have to before I excuse myself and walk promptly towards the bathroom that's a little ways down the hall. I can only hope Demi doesn't notice my rapid departure and interpret my strong desire to get out of there as a sign that I really wanted this alone time with her. No, that isn't why I rush out so early. And it's not why I walk to the bathroom with a spring in my step, or why the nervous filming-induced knots in my stomach all of a sudden give way to the sensation of butterflies.

Well, maybe she is the reason.

* * *

The CBS bathroom isn't as huge like the ones at the mansion. With at a dozen plain, grey colored stalls built in front of a row of motion activated sinks and soap dispensers- as far as bathrooms go this one is pretty standard. There is one cool thing I notice, though; a bonus stretch of mirror and granite counter top that has four chairs set up beneath it. I'm guessing the counter space is used as a nook for people to retouch make up in good light or rest their purses on without having to worry about them getting wet.

Whatever it's for I lift myself up to sit on it as I'm waiting, swinging my legs back and forth idly. The counter top is cool against the backs of my half-exposed thighs and feels somewhat soothing to my warm skin.

Demi hadn't told me when she would be joining me in the bathroom, but I decide to give it ten minutes. If she's not here by then, I'll text her.

Not much later, and definitely in under ten minutes, I can hear Demi walk in, the out soles of her combat boots creating soft thuds against the tiled floor. I hop off the counter just as Demi strides into view. She smiles at me- a real, warm smile -and everything is alright again. _She does like you after all._ I think, feeling completely foolish to have had doubted the fact.

After releasing a breath of air I had been holding in my lungs, I smile back at her, "Hi."

"Hi." Demi returns, expression becoming serene over the course of the word. Her eyes search my face, evaluating whatever she sees with a slight nod before she asks, "Are you doing okay?"

From previous check-ins of concern over how I'm feeling, I know that this is not not a simple yes or no question and she expects some kind of reasoning behind me becoming so introverted moments before. She expects honesty.

I run the tips of my fingers along the cool edge of the granite counter and nod my head. "I'm okay." I say thoughtfully, struggling to try and put my thoughts into words to explain myself to her. I take a few seconds to come up with something, and even then I leave out a few details that probably don't need to be said anyway. Demi watches me, patiently waiting for for me to continue. "I just..." _want to make you proud._ "... I really hope that this Plan B is works, because I'm tired of being so..." _not good enough_ "... whatever it is I am."

Right as I say my last word, a touch of sadness registers on Demi's features and I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and look down to watch as she lifts a hand towards me. It gets within a few inches of one of my own hands, hanging loosely by my side, before she alters whatever motive that had gotten her to that point and agilely draws her hand away from me, moving her delicate fingers up and through through her hair instead. The change of direction is so smooth, I may have imagined how her hand had been angled towards me in the first place. "I don't think you're all bad." She says lightly, smiling at me as if that's all I need to feel better.

It kind of is.


	6. Black

I'm unsure how to respond, or how much to read into the hand situation, so a brief lull of silence ensues.

I look up at Demi, waiting, and her eyes only briefly meet mine before flitting away. I purse my lips and try to think of a clever way to break the silence. I end up thinking over our texts from earlier today and, pretty sure it would rouse a laugh out of Demi, I settle on one to bring up.

I clear my throat. "Just so I'm clear, having the audience be naked truly isn't Plan B, right?"

She laughs, a hearty and rich sound that bounces off the bathroom-walls. "The nude audience idea is plan C, actually."

"Let's hope plan B works then." I say, "Um... so, are you going to tell me now? Or do I have to guess?"

Demi nods, smiling at me a little. "Take a seat." She says.

I do as she says, pulling out a chair from beneath the counter and sitting on it.

Behind me Demi to be pondering her next move, fiddling with the ends of her blonde hair when she speaks to next, "Be open minded about what I'm going to ask you to do, alright? I thought that this would be a cooler way of telling you my idea than just... you know, saying it."

I crane my neck so I can look back at her and nod in response, patiently awaiting more instruction.

Demi smiles down at me. "Turn that way," She says, pointing to the mirror. ''Please."

I readjust myself to face the mirror again and watch the place above my head where Demi stands, pulling at the the collar of her blazer before her eyes meet mine via the reflective surface.

"Alright, uh, first: take a good look at yourself and then tell me what you see." She says.

I drop my gaze so I'm looking into the mirrored version of my eyes. As simple as her request had been, I hesitate for a moment, frowning, not completely understanding. The looking at myself part is easy enough, but I'm not sure what to do with the _"tell me what you see"_ part. All I see is what I always see when I look into a mirror; obliviously it's me.

Demi's rolls her eyes and blows an upward puff of air out the corner of her mouth that scatters her blonde fringe over her forehead, "No need to look so ecstatic. Yeah, I know it's weird. Open mind— remember? Just don't over think it, speak your mind. I can see something's working in that head of yours, but I'm not hearing anything."

"Um, o-okay." I fumble over my words, hoping my answer doesn't sound moronic, "I see me?" It comes out more like a question than a statement.

Demi nods in endorsement, elbows bending at her waist as she laces her fingers together across her front. "And who's that?"

I take the question as: _Who are_ you _?_ And the answer is obvious, once again... too obvious? I have no clue what a right or wrong answer is, not knowing the angle Demi is coming from or what this peculiar activity is leading up to. But I trusted her, and had agreed on humouring her, so I try to figure it out to the best of my abilities.

"I'm Jennel. Jennel Garcia" I introduce myself, feeling an odd sense of de ja vu from being in this position before with her a few months ago. Except, Demi had been in front of me, judging me. Now I was judging me. "Who I've always been." I say. It sounds like a semi-intelligent answer to me. I hope it's what she's after.

Demi nods with a little more enthusiasm, beginning to pace slowly back and forth behind me.

"And how..." She pauses and I think I catch her glancing down at her hand as if she actually has the question she wants to ask written there, but she closes her hand into a fist before I can tell for sure. "How do you feel?" She asks. I start to swivel in my chair to look at her. "I feel fine." _And confused._

She stops mid-pace and I feel encouraging but persistent hands guiding my shoulders towards the mirror again. "You can't be looking at me when you answer." She sounds flustered. "Looking _in_ the mirror, at yourself, what do you feel?"

I do as I'm told and focus back on myself. My reflection has a slight smile on it's face. "I look— I mean... I feel happy." I say, and I think I'm finally grasping the point of this all this. I frown in concentration, studying my mirror-self more critically. What do I see? Me. How do I feel based of of what I see? I see the scar near my hairline that's impossible to spot unless, like me, you know exactly where it is and what light catches it. The scar brings with it memories of pain and frustration of when I used a hair straightener for the first time. Then I notice the faint purplish marks beneath my eyes from not enough sleep. It reminds me of more frustration; losing sleep over worrying about the future.

What stands out the most in my reflection is the section of bright yellow hair behind my left ear. I had worked hard to get it that way. From convincing my parents it would look good and I wouldn't regret it; to spending hours narrowing down colours until I was left to choose between electric yellow or acid green dye. I remember wanting colours in my hair since middle school. To be picked out of a crowd as _'the girl with the yellow hair'_ rather than _'her'._ Getting to change my hair had been like a 'screw you' to conformity.

I try my best to tell Demi this. "I feel like, I'm working hard. I'm really striving for what I want..." I let the words roll off my tongue as I think of them, trying not to filter anything. "I feel like I've been fighting for something. I'm happy, but I'm working really hard for it."

"Do you feel like a rockstar?"

"I feel like a rockstar." I echo her immediately, not having to consider it.

But then I study the face looking back at me, the way my reflection now has a crease between her eyebrows and bites at her lip.

My reflection doesn't look like a rockstar.

My reflection looks scared.

I definitely don't have Pat Benatar's piercing gaze or carry Joan Jett's natural take-no-names authority, despite how much I want to believe I do. On the outside, I my reflection looks plain and innocent. _I_ look plain and innocent.

I think I've at last caught on to the purpose of this exercise.

"But... not." I amend.

Demi stops her slow pacing and there's a gleam of something in her eyes that I can't place. When silence hangs heavy in the air, I take it as encouragement to continue.

"I mean, I _feel_ like I'm a rockstar, but I don't look like one, at all... and I don't feel like she—" I gesture to my reflection, "—can do anything. I don't look how I feel."

Demi nods, wearing knowing smile on her lips that proves that I've successfully discovered the point of this exercise. "Maybe that's your hang up." She says, "Your outsides and your insides need to match." She moves so she stands directly behind my chair, bracing her hands on the back of it. "So I'm thinking to solve that, we change your outside."

I sit there mutely as I consider all of the possibilities a change of outside may entail. The options are endless and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Demi pulls out the chair beside mine and sits down, facing me. "What I'm getting at, Jennel, is that there's a bottle of black hair dye in hair and make up with your name on it."

Black hair dye. That's the change Demi has been hinting at. This is her elusive Plan B.

I gulp. "Permanent?"

"What could would wash out rockstar be?"

I worry at inside of my cheek with my teeth, trying to picture myself with a black head of hair. Would it even suit me? Sure, over the years, I had experimented with my hair on multiple occasions. But the dyes I had used were always kind of similar to my natural colour; an auburn, or a richer brown colour. Safe colours.

I was up for trying something else, but I still wanted to be recognizable as a Garcia. As me.

Dying my hair permanently black would be a drastic step out of my safe colour zone.

 _But you have to admit, you're willing to leave your safe zone if it's for her._ I try to cast the thought aside.

Sensing my apprehension, Demi tries a different approach, cleverly name dropping for my benefit, "Think about Joan Jett. She was a badass who knew how to own a stage. I'm sure you know that by being so fearless, she changed made history for female rockers in the music industry. For you, we're covered in the stage area, you can own a stage. No problem. But Joan didn't just have presence; she had signature style, from her hair to wardrobe. And I think that's where a boost would really help your confidence."

"I'm not Joan." I deadpan.

"Of course not, because you're Jennel." She takes section of her blonde hair and holds it up. "Look at my hair. It's blonde, and I'm still Demi. I was still Demi when I had brown hair, I was still Demi when I had red hair. And if I died my hair blue tomorrow, I'd still be Demi. Right?"

I manage to nod, because she's making perfect sense, no matter how concerned I feel towards the matter.

"Your hair isn't who you are, but it's versatile and can be used to your advantage. I feel like you lose your spark when you aren't performing. I think it might help you embrace your greatness if every time you looked in a mirror, the impression that you get is 'total rick star' and not 'maybe a rockstar, maybe not'."

"I understand. Off stage I'm different." I say.

Demi frowns, but doesn't correct me. "I'm just trying to do what's best for you. Being here is such an opportunity, I just want you to use it to your full potential."

"Maybe one of your plans should be to build a stage underneath me and wheel me around." I joke, hoping not to sound like I'm forcing it.

"Hey, don't tempt me." She doesn't seem to detect my struggle to remain light hearted. "So..."

"So?"

"I didn't hear an answer. Where do we stand with this? I get you in for an appointment today if—"

I interrupt before she gets carried away, constructing plans that I won't be able to refuse because she's Demi Lovato and I'm a sucker for her.

Ugh. "Can I think about it?"

She answers with a silent grin and nod, but I notice a different emotion in her eyes. "I understand." And with that she gets up and pushes in her chair, clearly preparing to leave.

It seems abrupt, but then I remember the tight schedule she has to follow. I hadn't even seen her check the time— she was that disciplined. "I wouldn't leap into any of my ideas either after what happened yesterday..." She muses, somewhat distantly.

I look at up at Demi but her eyes are on the mirror, tidying her already tidy hair and brushing her palms against her front to flatten non-existent wrinkles. Repositioning her facade. "I hope you're feeling better."

"Yeah, thanks." I murmur. Although she never says the words, 'it's time to go', I take her lead as a hint and stand up, sliding my chair beneath the counter.

I turn my back on the mirror as soon as I can, idling in a standing position beside her. I know she isn't royalty or anything, but it feels wrong to leave ahead of her.

I swear I catch a smirking on her face before all I can see is the back of her blonde head as she walks to the bathroom's exit. She pulling the swinging door wide and takes a step before suddenly whirling back around me. I stumble slightly, barely catching myself from colliding with her, not anticipating the sudden stop. Keeping the door open with an outstretched foot, Demi leans against the door frame, not entirely blocking my exit, but effectively gaining most of my attention.

I meet her gaze which— as I expected — has gone steely once again. Measured and professional. She starts to shift her weight away from me so the door begins to close, but not before she informs me; "I need to know your decision by Sunday."

That's three days away.

* * *

I turn into bed early since I have an early call time tomorrow, but also to try and sleep off the queasiness that's been with me most of the day.

When I open my eyes again, it's dark out.

I'm more asleep than awake, but I still reach under my pillow to check the time. Correction: to check to see if Demi is staying true to her word of sending a nightly text.

 _I believe in you._

(She does.)

* * *

Three days...

By 7am the next morning I've already showered, dressed and been in and out of hair and make up, which is saying something. Pre-X Factor the only thing I would have accomplished at 7am is a whole lot of nothing. I'm able to wear my own clothes today, too, something I never thought of as a luxury. Naturally, I layer on my two favourite things: leopard print and plaid.

The only thing I'm wearing that isn't mine is a mic pack fastened to my waistband.

I fiddle with the microphone's wire through my shirt even though I have been told not to. I'm grouchy from skipping breakfast.

On today's agenda for is an interview, another rehearsal and then a meeting with my choreographer for the live shows.

Most of my interview goes by in a blur. I fail to remember the interviewer's name seconds after she says it. All I can focus on are the too-white teeth that show when she smiles and says I'm her favourite contestant. I try to keep my eyes averted as much as possible so I don't laugh.

We discuss a handful of topics such as the theme for the live shows being 'Made In America' and what I think it means; what it feels like to be in the final 16; how different Los Angeles is compared to Massachusetts; what I'm willing to do to win; plus a bunch of other uniform questions that I try to answer in a bubbly manner that doesn't sound forced.

Even though the words I'm saying are true, my mind is elsewhere. As in contemplating Demi's Plan B proposal. _Pro: you could rockstar. Con: you could like an idiot._ It should be a simple decision, I'm still girl and it's in the territory to be wary of what happens to my hair.

I know the verdict Demi wants me to make— she wants to help me reach my full potential and according to her changing my hair will do just that.

As expected, the interviewer eventually directs the conversation towards the very person I'm trying not to think too much about. "So what's it like having Demi Lovato working so closely with you?" _Closely._

I smile and shrug my shoulders in a casual — just brushing off the coolest thing ever to happen in my life — sort of way, trying not to react to the question any different than the ones before it. "It's awesome." _Overwhelming and confusing._ I keep that part to myself. "I'm trying my hardest because of her. I don't want to let her down."

"I've seen through the social media that a lot of fans of the show have been talking about CeCe Frey being blonde now. Is something like that in the cards for you?"

"Maybe..." I trail off. I have a feeling Demi had somehow planted the question. As if I hadn't been obsessing about it enough. I fix a smile on my face, making sure my faith in Demi isn't understated. "I mean, yeah. I'm willing to try whatever Demi thinks will look good. She knows what she's doing."

"So you'd be open for a dramatic makeover like CeCe's?"

I nod, even though it's slightly a hypocritical gesture. "Of course. She can change my hair, my style— anything."

* * *

I try not to let it bother me I walk into rehearsal and Demi isn't there.

I have no right to feel let down by her nonattendance. Deep down I had known she wasn't going to be here. It was only compulsory that she attended one session, anyway. For the camera's benefit.

As Eddie sets up his keyboard, he insists that she had told him how much she wanted to be there and that she sends her apologies. I force a smile, tell him that it's fine and then we get to work on my song.

We make decent progress but I'm nowhere close to perfect.

There are several new faults in my singing that hadn't been present the day before, and each time they arise I can feel the knots in my stomach steadily increase. No matter how many times the song replays, I struggle to stay on key and can no longer hit the final note without my voice cracking.

Eddie must notice how agitated I'm getting because he allows me to spend the last moments of our session going through scales and arpeggios instead.

Before I leave I'm given a sticky note that he's scribbled out a few vocal exercises along with his name and a smiley face.

My choreographer — a tall man named Brian — meets me in the hall wearing a fedora, combat boots and a stylish leather and denim jacket. I immediately like him.

After introducing himself, we walk downstairs together. The entire time he maintains a conversation with me, using his hands to talk animatedly about how he intends to help me fulfil my goals on stage. I figure I'm in great hands when he tells me how he had previously choreographed multiple dance numbers in TV shows, movies and for musical artists such as Beyonce and Britney Spears.

Once we reach the ground floor he then takes me through a door off the foyer engraved with "Sound stage #1" that opens into a brightly lit maze of hallways that eventually lead to a set of closed double doors. Brian pushes one open and invites me inside.

The room I walk into looks all too familiar; wall-to-wall mirrors, polished floors and a barre. It reminds me of the dance studio I had spent so much time in while growing up and I instantly feel at home.

I thoroughly enjoy the hour we spend there— whether it's because Brian's teaching me dance steps or from his contagious positivity, I can't tell for sure. The steps he teaches me are extremely basic and I get the hang of them in minutes. I barely get to move anything besides my hips. I tell him about my history of dance in an attempt to convince him that I'm more than capable for something more complicated. He explains that if we were going on his faith in me alone that he would have given me a completely different steps. However, on the day of the live shows I'm going to be on an elevated stage with not a lot of room for movement. Demi and Eddie had told him not to make this a dance number; it was to showcase my vocals.

 _Well, damn._ I think as I sway through the routine again. _If today's vocal lesson was any indication of what I'll be like on in a few days, I would rather draw attention to my dancing._

In an attempt to make things more interesting Brian brings in a mic stand and uses red duct tape to mark a small rectangle on the floor for that represents the space I'll have to work with on the actual day. Using the mic stand as a prop, he tries to incorporate some cool tricks I can do with it on the spot so I don't feel completely restrained.

I get the hang of his instruction in no time, moving to the sound of him clapping along and hollering out encouragements. "Yes! Work that stand like it's Ryan Gosling. Don't drop— oh! That's okay, pick it up. Keep going. Yes. There we go. Work it like a drunk Ryan Gosling!"

* * *

I get back to the mansion feeling achey from being on my feet all day.

According to the time, it's barely noon and in reality I'm just out of shape.

Starved as well, I make a sandwich that I nearly— out of habit— take into my room when I'm reminded by one of Simon's list of rules that food's not allowed anywhere but the kitchen.

By the time I finish and get out of the kitchen to lay myself across my bunk, I want nothing more than laze around on it for the rest of the day. Lyric seems to have the same idea, laying with her feet dangling over the railing her own bed across the room.

With just us in the room, respecting the silence between us, it's peaceful for a while.

That is until CeCe decides to dance her way into the room claiming she had been looking for me everywhere and has important news to share. The so-called news ends up being that I had missed an announcement that a high end chef is coming over to, in support of the show, drop off one of his desserts for us all to sample.

Normally the mention of fattening food would have been a sure way to get me excited, but then I look at CeCe and her perfectly in-shape body and my motives shift. Even in overalls that hang are low and baggy, like what she currently wears, her physique somehow remains completely flattered. Flat stomach, ballerina arms, just the right amount of curves. She radiates sex appeal. I know the same cannot be said for me.

I frown and look away, not allowing myself to be envious of a friend. But the seed had already been planted, and I couldn't help continue making comparisons in the back of my mind.

Not wanting to bring her down with my mood, or something worse— like being confronted and asked to talk about it— I say I want to rest a while, in hopes that she'll get the gentle hint that I want to be left alone. Thankfully, my message successfully gets across and she sets of to another area of the house. I feel slightly better once she leaves.

Instead staying true to my word and actually resting, I roll onto my stomach and get out my phone to answer any awaiting messages. I have 10 in my inbox, but most turn out to be from mom or dad. None from Demi.

Writing replies doesn't work as a distraction for long. CeCe is popping back into my mind all too soon and, as my thoughts stray from texts and into a daydream, I find myself trying to picture my head on her body.

Instead of nipping my narcissism in the bud like I ought to, I compose a new text to Andrea:

 _hey. think I'd make a hot blonde?_

I mess around with the phone's settings until she responds a few minutes later.

New Message (1) Andrea. 1:34pm.

Andrea: _I give it a_ _6/10._ _But_ _I'd still date you._

Me: _I'll keep you in mind if Johnny Depp says no to my marriage proposal._

Andrea: _but the question is can he provide for you like a wifey can? ;) You know you can't say no to my mac and cheese._

Me: _Um it comes in a packet... anyone can make it the way you do._

Andrea: _are you breaking up with me?_

Me: _I don't think we're meant to be._

Andrea: _I knew fame would give you a fat head._

Me: _no it was the ice cream that did that._

I hear a mechanical beep go off in the distance and assume it's be the front door signalling the arrival of the chef guy CeCe has told me about. I ignore it.

Andrea: _lol I miss you...but I hope you don't come back soon. You're gonna win before we see your ass back here. ;)_

Me: _you better vote 100 times._

Andrea: _I can do that and more. Remember me when you're famous, rich and Demi's bitch._

As soon as I read the last two words, my stomach drops and a lump rises in my throat.

It's a joke, obviously. Not an excuse to freak out.

I read it again and my cheeks burn. _Stop it, stop it, stop it._

I send back a simple one liner, hoping to shift the subject.

Me: _that's not gonna happen._

She sends back: _Which part?_

I start to type out a new sentence, but it begins with Demi and ends with a confession that I know better than to share, so I hastily delete it and put my phone aside. Out of reach. I needed to impose a cellphone intervention on myself before I sent out something I'd regret.

When it isn't aloud, admitting inner truths comes with dangerous ease.

Just then, a blur that I recognize as Camila Cabello suddenly bursts into the room. She moves like a person on a mission, so I watch her. With impressive speed, she hurries to her bed, ducking down out of sight briefly and then returning into view with her phone in barely spares a glance, along with a silently mouthed "hi", in my direction before she's heading briskly back to where she came from.

Lyric sits up and catches the LYLAS member's attention just before she makes it to the door. "Woah, what's the rush?" She asks, sounding interested.

Camila halts mid-step and turns around, eyes wide. "You guys, there's chocolate cake!" She exclaims, as if sugar doesn't already chorus through her veins.

"From?"

"Uh... I don't actually know his name." Camila says, fidgeting in place as if she's being kept from a pressing matter. "How about I go check for you?"

I exchange a look with Lyric before I mention the obvious, "You mean how about you ditch this conversation to go get free food?"

Camila looks surprised to hear this, then immensely offended. "I— no. It's not just food. It's free _cake_." She says, placing a hand on her hip and flipping a section of long dark hair behind her shoulder. "Don't you guys want some?" She asks, sounding puzzled.

Lyric grabs clasps her hands behind her head and falls back onto her bunk. "Sure, in a bit."

Camila looks at me and I shrug back at her, mental images of CeCe acting as my motivation to refuse.

"Oh." She says, "Okay... well... in that case..." Not wasting a moment longer, the dark-haired teen starts edging the rest of her way out of the room. She's out of sight before the sentence gets an ending.

I close my eyes and resist the urge to follow her, but that doesn't ward off the potent scent of chocolate wafting in from the kitchen or hearing delighted oooh's and aaah's over the din of conversation. It all amounted to something worthy of investigating, at least. And maybe a little investigational bite— _no. You don't need cake. Eating cake won't make you look like CeCe. Behave. Wait for dinner._

I grab my pillow and hug it to my chest, staring stubbornly at the wall. I make a deal with myself that I will stay clear of the kitchen as long as Lyric does. Unfortunately, a few seconds later, Lyric gets up.

* * *

I try not to visibly sulk from where I have chosen sit at the dining table.

The kitchen island teases me a few yards away, laden with three large cardboard cake boxes surrounded by contestants all trying to cut a piece for themselves. Even though I had steered clear of the commotion myself, when Willie comes over to sit with me he brings with him two slices on paper plates and plastic cutlery.

I know one is destined for me, that he's trying to be kind and helpful since he saw that I hadn't helped myself yet. He couldn't possibly know I was trying to resist temptation.

On the other hand, wouldn't it be rude to refuse?

I bite my bottom lip, struggling to remind myself that eating cake wouldn't give me abs.

"Howdy." He says as he seats himself across the table from me.

"Hey."

Slumping down in my chair slightly, I try not to be too conspicuous as I size up the chocolate delicacies he has brought with him, but Willie catches me looking and slides a plate over to me. I stare at it, but make no move to touch it.

My resolve remains in place until he take a scoop of his and has the nerve to start making absurd noises.

"Oh, man... oh, _god_." He's all but moaning as he scoops up another forkful, crumbs spilling from the corners of his mouth. "Jennel you gotta... mmm! This is what I'm talking 'bout. I could eat this all day!"

A few questionable looks get sent his direction from those within earshot. Willie seems selectively oblivious, aggressively delving his fork into the middle of the dessert that he continues to lose his mind over up until the last bite.

I can't help but grin and momentarily emerge from my cave of doom and gloom. "If I try some, will you shut up?"

Willie feigns a scandalized expression, a hand placed earnestly to his chest. "What? Does witnessing true love between a man and fine baked goods make you uncomfortable _?"_

I scoff and pull my plate closer.

"Fork, please." I say. He hands me a plastic fork and use it to take off a corner piece of cake. I eye the morsel for a moment, then pop it into my mouth.

I chew. I swallow. And it's possible I hear the hallelujah chorus ring in my ears.

To think, I almost denied my best taste buds of the sweetest, most delicious decadence I had ever experienced in my young life.

I go in for more an instant later. "Holy crap." I say, unable to find better way to express how I feel about the flavours currently thrilling the inside of my mouth. Willie hadn't been over-exaggerating at all. One taste of this chocolate masterpiece had my avoidance tactics completely crumbled. "Damn you." Whether I'm saying it to my food or to Willie, I'm not certain.

Willie and I both get up for a second helping but end up with a meager sliver each due to the cake's popularity with everybody.

Whatever. Sliver or not, it's rich, velvety and glorious.

With an sudden elevated mood, assuredly from the chocolate, the rest of my late afternoon is in Willie and Arin's company. We decide to go out— which included ringing up a taxi just to rebel against the policy that contestants were only to be driven to places via the provided X Factor shuttles —in pursuit of comic store that Willie had googled. What he had neglected to tell us was that the store was in the middle of nowhere. On the way there the taxi driver lost his way several times despite the installed GPS. When we get back we all agree that it was just a way to run the meter higher, but Willie insists that the plastic bag of Adventure Time comics that came out of the trip was worth it.

After dinner — which winded up being take out from Five Guys that I warranted worthy of indulging on by promising myself I'd start being healthier tomorrow— I strip off and retreat into the shower. I stand under the warm rain until steam fogs up the glass walls around me.

Following my usual routine, I start humming an assortment songs as I lather various creams onto my hair and body, rinsing and repeating. My hands and feet resemble prunes by the time the final suds disappear down the drain.

Unfortunately, my concerns from earlier don't disappear as easy as bubbles do. I press my forehead against the shower wall. The inside of my skull buzzes as it all comes back. Demi's proposition; Demi in general; the possibility of losing my voice; looking good enough; _being_ good enough; keeping my shit together. All of it has been the outskirts of my mind, waiting for when I have a moment to myself to rise out of shadows and wreak havoc. I know better than to permit myself to get stressed out before the live shows, but the risk of failure provides constant fuel to my growing list of frets.

I make an effort to channel my nervous energy elsewhere as I exit the shower, whisper-singing the words to Home Sweet Home as I pat myself dry and dress myself in the oversized Pirates Of The Caribbean shirt I sleep in.

 _"Feel me in your bones,_ j _ust one more night,"_

I go stand by the sink and reach for the hair drier mounted on the wall. Before turning it on, I take a moment to study how I look in the mirror.

 _"And I'm comin' off this,"_

My hair looks several shades darker from being wet, almost passing as black.

 _"long and winding road, I'm on my way..."_

I squint at myself, turning my head side to side to see my saturated hair at different angles. I definitely wasn't seeing anything reminiscent of Joan Jett in front of me, but perhaps the colour wouldn't look too bad.

* * *

The next two days are long and gruelling. Everything flies by in bits and pieces—

Waking early.

Microwaving breakfast.

CBS studios.

A wardrobe fitting.

Tape measuring.

Sucking in.

Rehearsals.

Voice cracking.

Eddie activating a 24 hour vocal rest.

Lunch.

Exploring LA with Willie.

Shopping.

Sight seeing.

Madam Tussands.

Having fun.

Forgetting about my vocal rest.

Laughing and yelling.

Getting manicures with CeCe.

Eating dinner at midnight.

Watching Despicable Me at midnight.

Getting my affirming text of the day from Demi: _Hang in there rock star. Whips crack too, but no one underestimates that they kick ass._

Going to sleep.

Waking early again.

Sore throat.

CBS studios.

Falling asleep in the green room.

Nearly missing my call time.

Rehearsals.

Coughing.

Singing until my voice feels scratchy and hoarse.

Eddie's smile when I look at him.

Eddie's eyes full of worry when he thinks I'm not.

Standing outside the room when my time's over.

Listening to Paige and CeCe nail their songs.

Feeling like shit.

Crying about it.

Crying about crying about it.

Being sent to the on-site medic.

Getting my temperature taken.

Being feverish.

Taking advil.

Riding back to the mansion with Bea and Willie.

Getting car sick.

Finding paper bags just in time.

Feeling mortified.

Falling asleep on Bea's shoulder.

Waking up with a headache.

Stumbling upstairs to my room.

Another pounding headache.

Taking another advil.

Refusing to fall asleep.

Waiting for her to save the day.

Finally receiving: _Even Black Beauty got hoarse sometimes._

Dreaming.

* * *

D-Day...

Someone gives my shoulder a shake and I'm jolted awake whether I want to be or not. My head and stomach feel leaden.

Keeping movement as minimal as possible, I peer around. The pale light that bathes the room lets me know it's still before dawn. Ugh.

I assume it's CeCe who had woken me, so I hit the underside of her bed. "What?" I grumble up at her. My hand throbs from striking the metallic bars that supports her mattress above mine.

I call out again when I get no reply, "Hey!" I struggle to keep my voice at a whisper— 1 because Eddie still wants me to save my voice, 2 because I don't want to wake the others. "CeCe! What do you want?"

A hand comes over the railing, covered in a sheet from the wrist up, and swats at the air in my general direction. "Shhhhh. No."

I frown. Given her reaction, I must have woken myself up somehow. Not surprising, seeing as I'm apparently coming down with some kind of virus.

Dismissing my disturbance as a bad dream, I begin pulling the bedsheets up to my chin and curling into a ball when I feel a second jolt. Seconds later, a third.

I sit up when manage to put the pieces together. It's my cellphone; vibrating up a storm beneath my pillow.

But alerts didn't go off by themselves. Somebody was to blame.

"So much for discreet mode..." I mumble to myself as I reach to wear my phone had buzzed it's way to up against the headboard. I flip it over over to check out who the culprit is.

I caution myself not to have any expectations, but there it was, there she was, in all her LED glory on the screen of my phone:

New Messages (3) Demi Lovato. 3:35am

I can't resist reading on even though my head is pounding, demanding to return to a horizontal position.

Demi: _Wakey wakey. :D_

Demi: _Helloooo?_

Demi: _Good morning starshine the earth says hello!_

I write back before she blows up my phone's inbox even further: _and I say goodnight!_

She quickly replies: _Don't you dare. You have a vocal rehearsal at 5 no sleeping in young lady_

Will the other young adults wake up to reminder texts from Demi too?

I take advantage of being the only one awake enough to talk to and write back: _I'm a rockstar. Ain't no ladies here._

Demi: _that's the spirit_

Demi: _anyway, speaking of hair... today's the day. Are you going black and never going back? ;)_

I don't quite follow her train of thought, but then it hits me. Today is decision day over the fate of my hair. It shouldn't come as a shock. And yet, even with three days to mull over what I'd do, I still feel unconvinced about saying yes. Although, now my reluctance is from being nervous rather than doubting the plan's effectiveness. A potential self-confidence booster definitely wouldn't go amiss, especially since becoming sick.

Me: _are you taking advantage of me being half asleep and unable to make clear choices?_

Demi: _Never._

Demi: _(unless it's working)_

Me: _I'm still thinking about it_

Demi: _Only a few more hours left, starshine. I need a decision._

The nickname makes my face feel warm. _Stop that._

Another message jumps up.

Demi: _I can wait til noon, okay?_

Me: _Okay._

Demi: _Okay._

Jennel: _you're wasting valuable texting space yknow._

Demi: _Lame. You're supposed to say okay back to me again. Haven't you read TFIOS?_

Me: _What?_

Demi: _Seriously? It's a book._

Demi: _You know what books are right?_

Me: _of course I know what they are, give me some credit. I just don't read them._

Demi: _Really? Ever?_

Me: _rarely._

Demi: _Wow. I really don't know anything about you._

I stare at the words, frowning. As much as it bothers me, I know it's true. Demi doesn't know anything asides from small talk and what I filled out on my X Factor application. That didn't amount to much. Even in the few brief, covert meetings we had had to speak freely to each other, I shared very little. I hadn't thought to. Asides from the evident void between celebrity and small town girl that would prevent us from being able to relate too well, X Factor only lasted a few months. In the big picture, it didn't seem necessary to get attached.

I feel timid as I text back: _do you want to?_

Demi: _I do. Later. I'll make time. Btw how are you feeling?_

I know better than to lie.

Me: _Alright._ _Better than yesterday._

Demi: _Sounds good to me._

Demi: _Now, ass out of bed! Big day ahead!_

Her enthusiasm practically radiates out of the phone.

Me: _Okay._

Demi: _Hey you. Don't use words that you don't understand the emotional attachment behind._

I'm about to type it again, just for kicks, when a follow-up text interrupts me.

Demi: _Don't you dare._

And she thinks she doesn't know me.

Demi: _See ya in an hour, starshine.❤_

I couldn't have fallen back asleep if I tried, not with that in my head.

* * *

Not much later I'm decked out in my leopard print jeans, leather jacket and boots, all of which usually make me fall into a roleplay of an actual rocker. And I needed all the extra help I could to sell that act given my current circumstance.

This is my last technical rehearsal before the final dress rehearsal, but the first one I have on the actual X Factor stage. It's way bigger than I expected and way busier, too.

Crew members crawl over the place like ants setting up camera equipment, plugging in and taping up wires, putting up projection screens; the works. I would be tempted to people watch if I wasn't trying so hard to belt out decent rendition of Home Sweet Home. No one wants to tell me, but I know I've gotten worse.

I can get through the choruses in an acceptable way, but every time the bridge rolls around— demanding for more power — my voice loses it's volume and vigour and everything falls apart. Unfortunately the mic I sing into picks up every single damn mistake. Each note that causes my voice to break and waver echo around the sound stage, just in case I didn't hear how lousy I sounded the first time.

Demi sits where she will on the day of the live shows, behind the judge's desk one seat from the left. She has her hair piled in a bun at the top of her head and has on an Iron Maiden band tee. I try not to look at her too much. I don't want to see the disappointment. I already see it in the glances I get from some of the ant-like X Factor members milling about the stage.

I can feel myself getting flustered and embarrassed as the opening strums of electric guitar lead into yet another attempt the song. Attempt on my behalf, that is. The band needs no more practice; instrumentally, the song is perfect. I'm the one making it terrible.

As expected, I'm no better this time around. My voice isn't doing do what it did a few days ago. I'm getting sicker. I need to stop.

Stubbornness and my determination lead me into urging myself onwards, just to finish one last run through and then ask for a break.

"Home sweet home..." As the final lyrics leave my lips, my inner critic rears it's ugly head and trashes my performance yet again. I rub the back of my hand across my forehead, wiping away a sheen of sweat that has nothing to do with the hot studio lighting. Fuck. There's no way I'm ready for this.

I can feel the sting of oncoming tears and firmly press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, trying to focus on steadying my breathing. The emotional wave subsides as quickly as it had appeared.

"Jennel?" It's Demi's voice, coming softly front a few feet away. I look up but she's not calling me over, she has her back to me and is talking with one of the X factor ants. Although I can see the crew woman's mouth moving too, I can only hear Demi's half of the conversation. "... how about you keep on doing what you're doing. Make sure the lights and whatever are ready. No, she's _fine_." There's an emphasis, a touch of protectiveness, to the word, "She'll be ready, it's just an off day... I don't care. Sometimes off days come in pairs... excuse me? A waste of time? No. No, no, no, you do _not_ say that about my contestant. Fine— call him, but he knows I know what I'm doing so that won't get you anywhere... alright, I get it. Yes, it's your job. And this—" She indicates my way with a wave of her hand, "— this is my job. So, you need to go do your job and I will tell you when we can bring the next one in, alright?" Demi's tone implies that 'alright' is the only answer she'll accept.

She begins to turn around and I get a glimpse of unexpectedly livid brown eyes, just before her attention snaps back to the woman she had been talking to. In a voice that's as cold and as piercing as ice, my mentor expresses one final demand. "Don't rush me."

This time when Demi faces me I notice that she's frowning and her jaw is set, clenched and furious.

However, an instant later, as if I had blinked, the expression softens into one that makes my insides melt rather than recoil within me.

As soon as we make I contact, she makes her way over; smiling with her arms swinging by her sides like a little girl. Calm as ever, like I hadn't just seen her defending me. Rather passionately, at that. Rather hot— _no. Stop that._

"How's it going?" She asks conversationally once she reaches the edge of the stage.

I make my way to the steps leading off of of it, towards her. "I'm crap." I reply in a mutter.

Demi's head tilts and she sticks out her right hand as if we're meeting for the first time. "Hey there, I'm Demi, nice to meet ya."

I try to keep a straight face, because I'm pissed at the world and what it's doing for me, but her antics sneak a smile onto my lips.

"I'm not kidding." I say, "You saw what just happened."

Rather than answer, Demi shakes her head and proceeds over to the front row of audience seats. She chooses a spot to sit and pats the place beside her. "Sit with me?"

A moment after she extends the invitation, my feet are already leading me there. Seizing the excuse for a moment's rest, I eagerly settle down in the seat beside her. Our conversation doesn't resume for a while. In the meantime, we sit in silence as watch Home Sweet Home play through a couple more times without a singer on stage. By now I don't have to ask to know that it's to make sure all the technical kinks get worked out such as: which designs will be projecting on the screens mounted in the background and whether or not the wind machine is synced to all the correct musical cues.

Even incomplete, the layout looks quite impressive. Perhaps if I sang badly on the day I could be saved by how theatrical the stage looked.

To my left, Demi's completely focused— writing on a clipboard she had acquired from somebody, devoted to making the best conditions for my performance. I was in good hands. Great hands. Probably smooth, soft and gentle hands... _stop it. Now is not the time._

Over an intercom speaker, a disembodied voice announces that lunch is in an hour. Meaning that it's also close to noon; Demi's deadline for the hair situation. And as uncertain as I still feel about it, I planned on saying yes. Given the state of things — being sick, essentially losing my voice, comparing myself to others and turning myself into a brooding mess — I'm willing to try anything. I no longer have a choice, really. If it would give me a stronger shot at succeeding as a rocker in this competition, the pros definitely exceeded my list of cons. Additionally, taking this leap of faith would show Demi that I trust her judgment.

I look down at my feet, using the toe of my left boot to squish my right one, creating a dusty smudge on the shiny surface. Stalling.

After I have exhausted my means of delaying, I try getting her attention. "Demi?"

"Hmm?" She doesn't look up from her clipboard, eyebrows knitted in concentration.

"I think I'll do it."

Demi check marks something before tearing her eyes from the page and turning her face towards mine, forehead still furrowed. "What?"

"I think I'll change my hair. You said it would help, right? Help make me a rockstar?" As I speak, I can see her gaining interest. I know this is the answer she has been hoping for. And if it meant having a better foothold in this competition, I would take her opinion on the matter over mine.

Flashing me a smile, Demi says, "Not exactly my words... but, yes. I think you already make a good rockstar, but you just need a little extra to convince others. Especially yourself."

"Right." I say, biting back my disagreement. I don't know how she can deliver more rockstar propaganda after I sounded so horrible moments earlier. Indeed, there were rockstars out there that sung like that— but they weren't headlining or inspiring anybody. They were headlining dark alley ways, wasted, only inspiring the companies that made deodorant.

Unaware of my train of thought, Demi scoots to the edge of her seat and reaches out to cover my hand, conveniently on the armrest separating us, with hers. "I think you just made a really good choice, Jennel. Trust me, the hair department here works magic." Her thumb strokes softly over my knuckles. It's reassuring, but brings a familiar jittery feeling to my stomach.

Yet, my stupid mouth opens up and ruins it, "You don't have to butter me up anymore. I said I'd do it."

As soon as I say it, Demi's eyes seem lose some of their light and her hand leaves mine, holding onto her clipboard instead. I don't know which is more disheartening to witness.

"Fine then." The statement is blunt and monotone. If she didn't continue speaking a breath later, I would have thought it was her way of closing the conversation. "— In that case, I think you've been here long enough. I want you to go up to the green room and rest your voice, or worry some more since you seem so keen on that. I'm more in favour of the resting option but..." She trails off, possibly expecting me to argue. I don't. I guiltily look at the floor and dig my teeth into my lower lip.

Demi's gaze lingers on me. "I'll have a stylist get you while you're there and then I'll try to drop by when he's done to see the final product... okay?" To my relief, her voice has reacquired it's former up-beat and friendly qualities. _  
_

With a feeling of relief, I make sure to nod my head in acknowledgement to what she has said. "Okay." I confirm.

The corners of Demi's mouth to twitch slightly, and she must know it because her hand swoops up to rest on her chin and shield her mouth from my sight.

Whatever I had accidentally triggered by speaking too harshly before, had faded. Thank god. Offending Demi was the last thing I wanted to do. Ever.

Another inter com message announces that it's quarter to, so I start to get up so I can head for green room like I've been told. I almost don't catch the words that she mumbles into her hand before I go, "I'm on your side, you know."

* * *

Things go exactly as Demi had described, and I'm soon in the final moments of getting my new hair is revealed to me, sitting beneath a hair drier in a hair and make up trailer positioned in the CBS lot.

During the entire process I had kept rather quiet, too apprehensive to speak. The stylist, Jon, didn't seem to mind the lack of communication. He had a radio on somewhere inside the trailer that played music as he worked, which diffused any possible awkward silences.

The treatment my hair ends up getting is more intensive than I had anticipated. Before lathering my head in dark coloured dye, Jon had spent an alarming amount of time with scissors in hand, snipping off chunks of my hair at random (or so it seemed). Not that I knew if my haircut looked good or bad, though.

In order to keep things a surprise, since I had walked in, Jon had made sure to keep my back facing mirror on the wall. A concept that was most likely under Demi's influence— trying to bring excitement to a relatively ordinary event.

The only thing can tell is different about how I look, without the aid of a mirror, is that a great volume of hair that used to be attached to me is now neatly piled together on the floor. I'm pretty sure he has given me bangs.

Jon turns off the hair drier and removes the plastic film wrap that had been covering my head. He stands in front of me using a comb to tidy what he sees. His face doesn't betray any emotion based on what he's looking at, so I'm unable to tell if I look ugly or improved. I can see sections of unfamiliar black hair fall into frame around my face. I'm tempted to reach up and pull on a strand, just to make sure it's actually a part of me and I haven't switched bodies with someone else.

Taking a step away from me, Jon tucks his comb into the wide front pocket of his apron. "I think we're finished." He says.

Like clockwork, the trailer's door flies open. In place of where it had been, Demi stands with hands on her hips. "So... I heard there was a rockstar hanging around here." She says, by way of greeting, her blonde head bobbing as she came up the 3-step entryway.

She looks more tired around the eyes since I saw her last, a good few hours ago now, but once she sees me — the "new" version of me — any trace of drowsiness is cancelled out by the huge grin on the lower part of her face. "Oh my god," She gasps, adorably, "You look amazing!"

Jon wipes his hands on a towel and stands beside her and gives a nod, of what I hope is approval, towards his handiwork.

I feel sheepish under their gazes; having the advantage of beholding a sight I had yet to see.

Practically with hearts in her eyes — I wish — Demi doesn't make her feelings a secret. Laughing, she says, "This totally suits you. I _love_ it." She looks towards the hair stylist and gives him two thumbs up, then brings him into a hug. "This is exactly what I was thinking, I'm so impressed." She says, "Thanks so much for looking after her so well."

Chuckling, Jon brushes off the compliment and ducks away from Demi's embrace.

I take the opportunity to get her attention. "Um, can I see now?" I ask, not expecting to be denied, but nervous to be granted my wish in fear of not liking what I'd see.

"Oh!" She exclaims, as if it had only just occurred to her that I was the only one still out the loop, "Yes, of course. Sorry." She laughs. "Hey, maybe we shouldn't have done this. It's going to be way harder to stop looking at you now."

I hope the colour red goes well with black, because I'm nearly certain that's the colour my face turns.

She smiles widely, leaning forward and swivelling my chair around to the mirror. "So? Thoughts?" Eagerness resonates in every syllable.

I look at what's been done to me and have to control my face from twisting into an automatic scowl. _Fuck._

Foolishly, I had set my expectations quite high based on Demi and Jon's reactions.

Finally getting judge the hair situation for myself, I don't feel a quarter of Demi's enthusiasm. Not even close. It's now inches shorter, and cut — straight and precise — just past the tops of my shoulders. I have bangs, too, like I suspected. The ends just skim my brow bones, cut in an identical fashion to the rest of my hair asides from some peculiar layered, choppy bits.

Thoughts? I hated everything about the change. From how it made the shape of my face look fuller and broader, to how it felt to have the shorter hairs tickling my skin, bringing with it the impulse to pin them back with each passing second. Not to mention, the colour. The charcoal hue is dull and lifeless. My pretty brown curls are no where in sight.

On someone else, the dramatic style probably would have been well-suited. Someone with a higher cheekbones, larger eyes and a slimmer physique that could make anything look good. But I don't have either physicality. Thus, this new style looks absolutely stupid on me. _I_ look absolutely stupid. But... Demi liked it.

Surprisingly I don't feel any anger towards her from this disaster being her idea. Ultimately, this was my doing. I agreed to go through with it, so I will have to live with the horrible looking result. So much for sky rocketing self-esteem.

Despite the shittiness of it all, on my end at least, what matters to me most is how over the moon Demi feels about it. She knows what the demographic I am aiming to please will want, and if this is it, I ought to grin and bear it. (At least until I get to be alone.)

I put on, what I think to be, a convincing smile and decide that for the benefit of Demi and my future music career, some lines need to be blurred. So I tell her, "I love it." And watch as she throws her arms in the air in celebration, the words "I knew you would!" cheerily leaving her lips.

I neglect to mention that gum is also loveable but that doesn't mean you want to keep it on your head.


End file.
